Revelations
by wryter501
Summary: A series of short, unconnected, in-canon-reveal stories. Tale 2: Alvarr's attempt to recruit Merlin backfires. Tale 3: Alator investigates why Emrys is failing his destiny, and plans to teach the king a lesson in loyalty. Tale 5: Merlin trades destinies, rather than lives. Mordred becomes Emrys, and Merlin flees Camelot to keep Arthur safe...
1. Pendragon's Command

**A/N: Eight reveal short-stories, none of which are connected to each other, but all begin in-canon and are organized in 'chronological order'. For instance, this first one begins during episode 1.1 "The Dragon's Call", and the last ones will deal with episode 5.13 time frame…**

 **Also, several of them begin with a 'villain' pov…**

 **The Pendragon's Command**

Uther prided himself on maintaining a working knowledge of many disparate interests, pursuits, and occupations common to each of the classes of people in his kingdom. An uninformed ruler, after all, was forced to rely on the instruction and counsel of others, and it had been decades since Uther had rid himself of the weakness of needing anyone.

Except Arthur. Of course. That was a fact of life not to be got around: A king needed an heir.

However, music was not one of those things that the king claimed to have any knowledge of. Or particularly much enjoyment in, usually. Except Lady Helen of Mora, and her accomplished voice.

Which he was, surprisingly, not enjoying tonight. He didn't know anything about music, but it shouldn't make him – everyone – feel… sleepy…

A woman in red folded her arms right on the table and pillowed her head on them. Shocking manners for a lady… but no one else minded – and a few more joined her in her outrageous position…

Uther felt his own head tip sideways, and his gloved fist felt like the best thing he'd ever rested his cheek on… Bad manners be damned. Was he king, or wasn't…

Abruptly the song ended – in an almighty crash of metal on stone.

Uther blinked away the cobwebs – inexplicably palpable cobwebs – and rose to his feet amid the gasps of his guests. Webbing covered the room – tables and cold candles and startled courtiers plucking at their filmy white bonds before they noticed what captured his attention immediately.

Lady Helen, crumpled. Oh, dear heaven. Under the chandelier – which had never fallen before.

Beside him, Arthur was on his feet in speechless shock – neither of them had a chance to speak – Lady Helen was stirring.

 _Not_ Lady Helen.

The woman whose legs were trapped by the heavy iron spikes of the chandelier was _old_ – straggly gray hair and pale fleshy wrinkles visible as she lifted herself on her arms. The look in her eyes, all over her face, was pained, venomous… vengeful, and Uther remembered – _I promise you, before these celebrations are over, you will share my tears. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son._

 _Yes… It's certainly too late for Arthur._ Shrieking, she made a throwing motion.

Uther began to inhale a gasp as pale light flickered from a thrown blade. No time – too late for Arthur –

Someone else gasped. Because suddenly there was another figure between Arthur and the woman on the floor – a slender young man with black hair and a peasant's brown jacket, hand held out as if in aborted entreaty -

The figure jerked backwards, almost falling across the table, catching himself on its edge – and the knife was nowhere in sight. Had not clattered to the floor, loud in the stillness of astonishment.

"Merlin!" Arthur said, his voice a reprimand of exasperation and concern.

Uther felt distant surprise – so his son knew this young stranger? – immediately eclipsed by the relief that there was no sign of pain or injury, as he turned his head to view his heir.

Both reactions were brief, however, because the sorceress was neither dead nor done. She spat another word, lifting her hand. Her eyes flickered with that unnatural gleam of sorcery – and as she collapsed, so did the second light fixture –

With a _snap_! of broken chain.

Uther had only time to flinch, looking up into the falling spiked iron, larger than a wagon wheel and heavy as two men, above himself and Arthur both –

 _dammit –_

And it caught, jerking like the peasant boy's body, suspended in midair. Close enough to touch.

Arthur swore.

Uther acted, knocking his chair over backwards, shoving Arthur to the side and out from under before the chain – which surely had caught on _something_ – snapped free again.

But. He turned his head the very second they were clear, and saw the boy again for the first time.

His outstretched hand. Empty. But his eyes were rich with the gold of magic.

Uther had seen hundreds like him. But this time, holding the deadly spiked iron til he and his son were _safe_.

Shocked, he looked closer. And saw the witch's knife-hilt stuck in the blue homespun shirt, inches to the left of center, already darkened and dampened with blood where the blade pinned torn fabric to torn flesh.

The boy – Merlin – wavered, and his hand dropped.

The chandelier dropped, with a horrendous crash over table and chairs, breaking crockery. Drawing screams and cries from his guests, still awakening to find themselves blanketed in enchanted cobwebs when they were supposed to be celebrating twenty years of ridding Camelot of magic.

"What the hell just happened here?" Uther thundered rhetorically, as a way of gaining even a semblance of control over the situation; he was the only one who had the right to speak or make demands.

The witch had challenged him in the courtyard and escaped. She'd surely killed Lady Helen to steal her face and figure – Sir Gregory sent to escort the singer – she'd masqueraded through his halls and reached his dining chamber. And had his son, his only son, right in her grasp.

And she was only _one_ of the magic-users present in the room tonight!

Sorcery faded from the boy's eyes, as he dropped his head slightly to look at the knife in his chest. He made as if to reach for it – then looked back up at Uther, agony and fear shining in his eyes. Looked at Arthur beside him, and Uther.

"I…" he said. "I didn't…"

He had to know, everyone had witnessed his use of magic, punishable by death.

 _No matter the use?_ Uther asked himself. The answer before now had been a resounding _yes_ , but no sorcerer had used magic in his defense since… since…

Another skinny young man with coal-black hair and facial features made prominent by his leanness. What was the name… what was the name… He remembered well the feeling of guilt, suppressed and self-justified, but never quite forgotten, at the look of betrayal on that young man's face.

 _I thought you said you wanted to make peace with them!_

What was his –

"Merlin!" Arthur exclaimed again. Exasperation gone, leaving only concern. He put his hand on the table to round the corner of it, presumably to go to the young peasant who'd taken the thrown dagger meant for him.

But the fear on the boy's face – surely he knew his fate already – became absolute terror, at the first hint of action from his audience. His chin lifted and his eyes flashed golden light –

Uther cringed, expecting _Death_ – and Arthur froze in place. "What the –"

The cobwebs on Uther, too, had gone rock-solid, preventing movement and freedom, anchoring him in place – and everyone else in the hall, he saw at a glance.

"Boy," he rumbled warningly. "You best end your enchantment _now_ , or I'll have your head."

The young man went sheet-white. And stumbled back two steps. Blood seeped relentlessly and slicked his shirt halfway to his belt. His arm was bent and tucked tight to his body, like a bird with a broken wing.

"Father!" Arthur said. The exasperation was back – and directed at Uther, now.

Which was irritating. And interesting.

And the solid cobweb-fetters held, against Uther's surreptitious tugging and pulling – and Arthur's more obvious attempts. None of their guests – their guards – were free, either.

The young sorcerer turned as if seeking an exit, and tripped to one knee – putting down a hand to catch himself and letting out a pained cry, that might have struck at Uther's heart if he ever admitted he had one, anymore.

The faces of his people held consternation… but also _sympathy_?

"Merlin!" Arthur called out again. "Let me go! I swear I won't -"

The boy turned, staggering up again – eyes blank and mouth slightly open in a way Uther recognized for slipping consciousness. He leaned against the cobwebs – wouldn't be long now til the enchantment ended, and then he could… then he could…

Any other young peasant who'd managed to thwart an assassination attempt and save the life of _both_ king and heir, he'd reward. Gold if he wanted it, position if he needed it.

Merlin continued to back away, and stumbled on the witch's hand, falling over with another tumble that echoed too loudly in the breathless hall – and another gasp and groan of agony that sounded worse. He rocked backward, tried to roll to the side, panting in pained whimpers.

Another voice spoke insistently, hissed through the tension of uncertainty. "Merlin!"

Gaius. Of course. The old man _would_ think of treating an injured magic-user; he'd treated enemies captured in battle, before.

What of an enemy not yet captured. And in the battle, evidently on their side. Even now, weakened and only able to crawl, trying to escape. Not to strike out, even though he was losing his one advantage of mobility. Steadily, and quickly.

There was blood on the stone floor, now, smearing through the thin material of the homespun shirt. And the boy only dragging himself. While the court observed in helpless silence. And pity.

"No," the boy moaned. "Please. I was only… trying to… help. Please…"

The skinny body failed by inches, and silently they all watched it happen. An elbow down. The head rested on the floor. The hips settled – one foot arrested in a feeble kick of protest. The softest of sobs, and the collapse of shoulder tension sent one hand flopping over as the boy lost his grip on consciousness, ending mostly on his back.

Cobwebs dissipated like mist in sunlight, and Arthur moved quickly. Uther managed three steps, to come out from behind the table.

But Gaius, old man that he was, proved faster than either of them, sweeping his long robes between Arthur and the fallen boy as if _out of sight, out of mind_ could be made literal.

"Sire, I beg you," the physician pleaded swiftly, extending hands that shook – and couldn't help a backward, downward glance. "Please. Allow me to see to his wound. He can be – imprisoned. Til he is able to… stand trial."

With the other in mind, Uther could not help recalling, Gaius had said something similar then, also. And the injured young dragonlord had escaped Camelot's holding cells before judgment could be rendered, effectually vanishing as far as Uther was aware, or concerned.

Which made him wonder. And reconsider.

"Slowly, Arthur," he said, making his voice iron as he usually remembered to, in speaking to the son who must someday take his throne, and who must be ready always to do so at a moment's notice, life was so uncertain. And, who was not ready yet. "Keep your distance, that's an order."

Arthur threw him a look that held unhappiness and rebellion – but though he sidestepped to be able to see the boy on the floor past Gaius' robe, he didn't go any closer. "Father, he saved our lives. Surely that merits some consideration."

Yes, it did. Especially when weighted by the sympathy on the faces of their audience.

"Gaius," Uther said, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning to show his displeasure. Occasionally the old physician's loyalty was misplaced. "Is that Balinor's son?"

Probably no one else in the room knew that name anymore. And Gaius probably should have affected the same. But the old man blanched, and glanced back and down again.

"Who's Balinor?" Arthur demanded, sounding scornful in his ignorance. Almost like a king should – _if I don't know him, he's not worth knowing_. But Arthur didn't know everything yet.

"It is clear that his actions and intentions were to defend us," Uther said, well aware of the eyes and ears of the startled court. "For that, Gaius, you will be allowed to try to save his life. But." He measured his steps til his few inches height advantage over his physician was marked. "If he is caught in lawlessness again. In possession of an item of magic; even speaking to a sorcerer. Anything. His life is forfeit. Do you understand."

Gaius held his gaze a moment – then bowed acquiescence. The boy was to have the same conditional freedom as Uther had granted the old physician, years ago. "Yes, my lord."

Uther turned away as Gaius spun and knelt stiffly beside his young patient.

"Arthur," he said, and waited til his heir had dragged his gaze up from the injured peasant. "You have some familiarity with him."

"Yes, I – in the marketplace, I…" Arthur drew himself up. "Yes, Father. Some."

"He is your charge, then. Watch him closely; sorcerers are a canny and deceitful lot. His instinct to protect, whatever his motivation, might shift in an instant without warning, and you must be ready to strike him down when it does."

"If it does." Arthur gave him a nod of sober obedience, his eyes finding the limp form of Gaius' patient again as if he did not even notice the slight qualification he'd made to his father's order.

Well, it was a gamble. Uther watched Gaius call the guards to help him transport the unconscious boy. Watched Arthur step forward and bend to pick up the bloodstained dagger, handling it with a curious look on his face, and an even more curious glace to the corpse of the old witch cooling under the canted chandelier.

It was a rare magic-user who'd stop one of his own kind killing a Pendragon. Perhaps young Merlin might be of some use in the future, if this war was not nearly so won as Uther liked to tell himself and his citizens. And if he proved traitor like Balinor – Uther stamped down on the reaction of guilt he felt at that memory, that Balinor should feel the one betrayed.

Well, then. Who better to hunt the boy down than Arthur.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Three days in a row, Arthur had skipped the open court sessions. When he'd been younger, and Uther feeling less mortal, he hadn't minded so much. But Arthur was nearing the age when he could take the oath of inheritance, and his Quest lay in the foreseeable future as well. It wasn't the fact of Arthur's skipping, however, that occupied Uther's thoughts, so much as the suspicion of where he'd been instead of court.

When Uther reached the physician's chambers, the door was several inches ajar, and he paused outside; it suited his purposes to observe unseen.

"Ah," Arthur said, inside, in a condescending tone. "There we are. Lazybones is finally awake."

The muffled reply sounded far more disgruntled than respectful, and Uther used two fingers to push the door open a few more inches. It relieved him to see the sorcerer lying motionless on Gaius' patient-bed, the head of which was raised to the shoulder-height of the prince seated in the chair just next. The boy was shirtless, half his chest and one shoulder covered with bandages that seemed to match his skin for color; he didn't appear capable of causing harm – or even of lifting his head from the pillow - and Uther relaxed slightly.

"Now, then," Arthur returned cheerfully, "is that any way for you to address your crown prince, after I've just –"

Out of sight behind the door, Gaius at his work-table in the corner cleared his throat as if to say, _Excuse me, what_?

"Fine, Gaius saved your life," Arthur said.

Another murmur.

Then, "No, of course not, you idiot. That's what _saved your life_ means."

"His Majesty commanded…" The corner of Gaius' robe and his arm came into view, as he offered a potion-vial to the boy's colorless lips. Merlin swallowed obediently and grimaced. "That you weren't to be caught doing magic again, and to that end he furthermore decreed –"

"No – Gaius," the boy protested, twisting on the bed toward the old man and wincing. "I can't. I can't do that. You know I can't."

Gaius' best tone of stern advice-giving. "You're going to have to, my boy."

"No, but… I…" The sorcerer twisted again, seeking another avenue for his objection, and finding Arthur.

Behind the door, Uther stiffened involuntarily, ready to step in if need be. Ready to render a different judgment.

Arthur stiffened also, leaning back slightly and away from the bed. "What do you meant _can't_?" he demanded. "You don't seem to realize, this is a condition upon which your life rests."

Was the young sorcerer an enemy after all? Had Balinor _sent_ his son, perhaps?... But that wasn't logical, Uther reasoned. The boy had protected them; if he meant harm, he could have simply done nothing, in the banquet hall. And now, if he had other ulterior motives, surely he'd be acting more agreeable, to throw them off-guard

The boy refused to still. "Arthur, I… can't. If I can't do magic, I might as well be dead, because I… can't swear that, not to do magic ever again, because – because if I have to, I will."

Uther couldn't see Arthur's expression, as his son sat with his back mostly to the chamber door that hid the king. " _Have_ to, Merlin?"

"If – if you were in danger, like in the banquet hall. Or if Gaius was –" Uther heard the old man inhale suddenly, as if remembering something – "or someone else, maybe. I couldn't just… stand there and… watch it happen. Watch something bad happen, and not _do_ something, I couldn't, Arthur."

 _How very odd_ , Uther thought to himself, _that the boy uses no term of respect for his crown prince, and refuses a direct order to his face – and doesn't even seem to realize._

"You are my charge, Merlin," Arthur responded, surprisingly calm; Uther was proud of him for dealing with a magic-user so. "You can't ask me to stand by and watch you burn for not using that half a brain you've got."

Behind the door, Uther watched the sorcerer stare at his son. Surprised or uncertain or – just trying to figure him out. Most days, Uther felt sympathy with that – Arthur revealed startling flashes of his mother, sometimes. Uther tried his best to disapprove, rather than encourage that. Because it hurt too much to allow.

"Sire, if I may." The edge of Gaius' robe swung into view again, and Arthur turned to look up at him, an expression of expectant hope and trust that clutched at Uther's heart; that used to be his son's look for _him_. "The king's words were – _if he is caught_ in lawlessness again."

A moment of silence, inside the room and out. Uther's breath clogged his throat with an old dread of betrayal… but he didn't push the door open to begin shooting accusations like crossbow bolts.

"Fine," Arthur said. "Fine. Then, Merlin – no one else knows. You understand? No one else sees. You will have to learn to hide –"

Interrupting grumble from the injured sorcerer.

"Shut up, idiot. Obviously I'll do what I can if something like that happens. And Gaius will help, of course."

"Of course," the old physician echoed.

"Then you swear to me." Arthur leaned forward, obscuring Uther's view of the patient bed. "Nothing but complete honesty between you and me, understand? I have to be able to trust you to use your magic in a way I would approve of."

"Then you're going to have to learn more about magic," Gaius interjected.

Uther closed his eyes and half-turned, the ache in his chest like an old battle-wound at the words his court physician had said to him, once upon a very long time ago.

But – Arthur learning about magic. Arthur, who was sometimes very like his mother, very trusting and very soft-hearted where the people of Camelot were concerned. Uther hoped, not soft-headed.

"All right, then," Arthur said, with a sound like he'd slapped his knees. Uther looked back in the room to see that he'd risen to his feet. "As soon as you're healed and strong enough to work, you can take on some of the duties of my manservant. Learn your way around the citadel and the people who live and work here –"

Weak but undeniable negative.

"You need a job, Merlin," Gaius pointed out.

Grumble, grumble. Uther suspected he was going to find the peasant sorcerer extremely annoying, and decided to do his part to ensure their paths didn't cross often. Probably a few threats would suffice to teach the dragonlord's son to do the same.

"And," Arthur continued, "you'll have to learn to ride –"

"What, a horse?" Incredulity raised the boy's voice to audible.

"And the basics of weaponry –"

"Hang on a minute, Arthur, I don't think that –"

"Maybe it's best if you leave the thinking to me, then," Arthur suggested sardonically.

Uther snorted softly to himself and turned to descend the stair. Time would tell. Perhaps, if Merlin remained loyal and discreet, Arthur would grow tolerant of magic not wielded by this strange boy. Perhaps when he was king he would relax Uther's stringent ban and weaken Camelot – and, heaven forbid, lose the kingdom or his life or both. Or perhaps he would suffer a betrayal such as Uther had, trusting a friend with magic, and turn his back on it once again.

There came a time when a parent could teach no more lessons – when they had to be learned by experience. Which could be a very hard taskmaster, indeed. Uther hoped Arthur might be spared the pain he'd known.

But then, young men never knew what fate held in store. Destiny would out, regardless of men's machinations and laws.

 **A/N: It's not an original idea, that Uther recognizes Merlin for Balinor's son. Or that he decides to allow/use Merlin's magic strategically because of his defensive instinct; I know I've read both these concepts in fanfiction before… Hope you've enjoyed my version!**


	2. To Protect Me

**A/N: Post ep.2.11 "Witch's Quickening"**

 **To Protect Me**

Alvarr leaned casually on the trunk of a large box-elder, just out of sight of his two captives, toying with his handful of straw, twisting in preparation to tie. Congratulating himself on the success of another ambush.

A prize far more valuable than a wagonload of supplies bound for Camelot's citadel, and the chainmail and crimson cloaks to disguise their infiltration. A conquest far more certain than a lady's mercurial favor and assistance. Too bad Enmyria wasn't here to savor the moment with him. Too bad Mordred wasn't either – his captive's fault on both counts, and he expected to extract satisfaction for the loss of both.

All he had left were those three – Alvarr tossed a glance over his shoulder to the unwashed ruffians bickering over the bits and pieces hastily scavenged from the prince's slaughtered patrol. Oh, well. At least he had loyalty from them, if no brains or magic to speak of, among the three.

" _Merlin_."

The hissed whisper from his conscious captive, out of sight beyond the tree that hid him, brought a twisted smile to his face, as he twisted the straw back upon itself. It had almost been too easy.

Of course old Uther would send a patrol immediately, upon discovery of Alvarr's escape from the cells of Camelot. His gamble had been that the prince would be ordered to lead it – not such a stretch – and that the peasant-clad servant would be included in their number. His true quarry.

He mouthed the name to himself as the prince hissed it with more urgency – " _Merlin_!" – and couldn't quite keep a snicker from escaping.

Oops.

"Who's there?"

Because while the Pendragons were amusingly ignorant and willfully blind about some things, Prince Arthur's woodcraft really was – formidable. He'd tracked their camp, after all, protected as it had been. If Alvarr didn't have magic on his side – one spell powerful enough to put half the patrol to sleep where they sat their horses, halted by the prince's raised hand of warning – this latest ambush might have failed.

"Who is it, who's there?" the prince continued, raising his voice in his most demanding tone.

Alvarr smirked toward his three men – their names forgotten, but it was their loyalty that counted – who took no notice.

"I can tell you're there, you might as well come out and face me. If you're man enough."

Alvarr let the silence hang a bit longer, to unsettle the Pendragon further, dividing the loose ends of the straw into quarters. And was rewarded with another furious murmur.

" _Merlin! Dammit, wake up_ …"

Too delicious to be savored alone. But none of those three could appreciate the irony… Alvarr sighed, and pushed round the tree, keeping one shoulder leaned casually against the rough bark.

The prince, in spite of his assertion of knowledge of Alvarr's presence, inhaled swiftly through his nostrils and sat back, recognition in his eyes. His spine straightened and his chin lifted, but the dirt and blood on his face and in his disheveled hair – as well as the fact that that he was on the ground on his royal ass with his hands bound behind his back - ruined the effect.

Not for Alvarr, who grinned and enjoyed. "By all means, keep calling for your boy to wake and serve you," he drawled. And shifted only slightly to be able to hook the toe of his boot under the bent knee of the servant boy – on his back with his hands bound behind him also – and flip him to a new position of awkwardness. Not that he felt it.

"You leave him alone," the prince growled. "Your quarrel is with me."

"Too right," Alvarr agreed. "You lost me that crystal and the boy powerful enough to use it." Dead or dying or fled, he didn't know; Mordred hadn't responded to any of his calls, and they'd found no trace of him in the woods, either. "You're responsible for the death of the woman I loved."

"Then loose my hands and return my sword and we'll settle this like men," the prince demanded. "Unless you're too much of a coward, and plan to kill me while I'm tied. In which case, get on with it; you're boring me."

"I'm not going to kill you," Alvarr said. "At least not yet." He gave the prince an evil, significant grin, and enjoyed the way the boy's eyes fell to the figure in his hands as he tied the third of the four quarter-sections.

"Ransom, then?" the prince asked. Trying for arrogant indifference, but he watched Alvarr finish the poppet.

"Do you even know how much of a hypocrite you are?" Alvarr asked curiously. He leaned forward to touch the servant's black hair, rub it til he had only about half a dozen strands between his fingers, then pinched and yanked. The boy's head jerked with the action, but he remained placidly asleep.

"I said leave him alone," the prince growled. The glance he gave his fellow-captive contained a flicker of hope – which turned to trepidation when the plucking of hairs failed to rouse him. "What are you doing? What've you done to him?"

"He won't wake til I allow it." The strands were short, but sufficient; Alvarr held the ends in place with his thumb and wrapped the length around the straw figure's throat. Paused to wonder aloud, "Does _he_ know how much of a hypocrite you are?"

"What are you talking about?" the prince spat in frustration, shifting as he pulled at the cords binding his hands.

"I guessed that you didn't know," Alvarr said. "That he wouldn't have told you. But then, why remain in your service?" He spoke the spell to light the poppet's head on fire, and the prince flinched.

The straw blackened as the hairs lit and shriveled; the unconscious sorcerer on the ground frowned and inhaled and moved sluggishly. For a moment. Then subsided as Alvarr blew out the flame.

The smoke that rose from the poppet twisted with his breath as he spoke. "Let's ask him, shall we? I need to know what I'm up against if I'm to make a proper counter-offer."

"Are you mad?" the prince said incredulously. "All this because you wanted my _servant_? And he's a useless one, why would you –"

Alvarr smiled and released the sleeping spell. The prince cut himself off as his companion half-rolled, groaning.

"Ar-thr…"

"Right here, Merlin." The prince's voice was steady, but the way he cut his glance at Alvarr said, he was fully aware the other's waking was the renegade's doing, according to plan.

Alvarr grinned, and blew a pattern in the trail of smoke from the poppet's head. "Good morning," he said to the boy, who'd gotten a shoulder under him to raise his head from the ground. "Or afternoon, rather."

Merlin made sure of the prince with a quick look, before struggling around to where he could sit up. Interestingly enough, the prince swung his upper body away, in trying to reach to help him with the hands tied together behind his back.

"I do apologize for this," Alvarr told him, twirling the poppet slightly. The boy's eyes fixed to it longingly, but with a puzzlement Alvarr didn't immediately understand. "Oh, you've not seen one of these used before? It binds one's magic – temporarily, of course, I needed to be sure you would hear me out."

"What?" Arthur exclaimed, as Alvarr watched fear shoot through the younger sorcerer's eyes.

"He didn't know," Alvarr said sympathetically. "I understand. You lied and hid because you didn't have a choice – but now you do."

"I don't have magic," Merlin said immediately. "You thought I had magic? You're wrong, though, I –" he dry-swallowed revealingly, but didn't look at the prince, who still looked confused – "don't."

Alvarr hummed and twirled the poppet again. "Not at the moment, no."

"Merlin?" the prince said, scowling in irritated bewilderment.

Merlin shied away from the Pendragon's glare, ducking his head and lifting his shoulders slightly. "I… don't."

"You didn't know he had magic," Alvarr said gleefully to the prince, "but he does. And now that the prince knows – Merlin, isn't it? – only death awaits you in Camelot, so you see it's a very easy choice, after all."

"To join you, you mean?" the prince turned his anger on Alvarr. "You're a sorcerer, and sorcerers lie."

The boy flinched, and Alvarr laughed. "Only too true," he said. "Would you believe him if he told you himself? Go on, Merlin, tell him. The truth at last, won't it feel good?"

The black-haired boy bit his lips shut and shook his head. Slowly, mutinously. He was stubborn. Alvarr liked that – and able to avoid detection, living in Camelot under the king's nose, which meant also, clever and deceptive. He liked that even more.

"If I shove a pin through this narrow straw chest," he said, "guess what'll happen?"

"I'll die," Merlin said dryly to his knees, and the prince's blue eyes widened in horror.

"Hells, no." Alvarr was offended. "No, I don't want to kill you. I'm _recruiting_ you, boy. Just – snipping the ties that bind you to your former life. Encouraging you – maybe a little forcefully – to tell the truth, and don't look back. Where is that needle, now?"

He knew he didn't have one. Enmyria had carried one. There might be one among the patrols' belongings, though; Alvarr's three men were more the type to kill a man for his jacket than sew a tear in their own.

"Why do you even want him?" the prince said boldly. "He's perfectly useless, you know. And a coward, to boot."

"Do you remember I told you, you couldn't wield the crystal, none of you had the power?" Alvarr said conversationally.

The prince looked puzzled; Merlin abruptly lost all color.

"I was wrong. You tossed it at _him_ , like an old bone to a pup with milk-teeth, and rolled yourself in your cozy blanket by your warm fire." Alvarr still couldn't believe it, and shook his head. "You didn't see him. But I had my eye on that crystal –" _it'll still be mine, one day_ – "and I saw him."

The prince turned his head to stare at his companion, who swallowed and closed his eyes, and held very still.

"He used it. Or rather, it used him; it does require a bit of training, I understand. But it proved his potential." Alvarr grinned down at them, but neither reacted to him, and he added, "What did you see, by the way? I'm curious."

Merlin shook his head so vigorously his hair flopped like a child's.

"What did you see?" the prince repeated, then started as if he'd spoken without intending to.

"Just the – fire, reflected and – broken, by the – faces of the crystal," Merlin said jerkily. "It was – eerie, so I – dropped it."

The prince pulled back, his lip lifting toward an uncertain sneer.

Alvarr said gleefully, "He can hear the lie, now, Merlin. Might as well tell him the truth about your magic. You can tell me what you actually saw, later."

Merlin gave him a black glare from under his brows, one which would have been golden-deadly if not for the smoking poppet in Alvarr's hand. Loyalty. Good to see, just as good as stubbornness and cleverness and deceitfulness. But, misguided.

Alvarr snapped the fingers of his other hand, and called the fire back in a floating tongue of flame over his palm. He stepped – carefully, the prince was a warrior and trained strategist and not seriously injured – to Pendragon's side. The prince leaned back, lips pressed together and breathing quickened through widened nostrils; Merlin squirmed desperately and ineffectively.

"Tell your prince you have magic," Alvarr warned indulgently.

Merlin struggled. The prince's blue eyes almost crossed, staring at the flame that began to redden his skin.

"I have magic!" Merlin shouted.

Alvarr halted forward movement – then retreated in satisfaction so that the prince's attention could leave the threatening tongue of fire to snap around to his servant's face. A single tear coursed a clean path through grime on Merlin's thin cheek as he held the prince's gaze. Too loyal, maybe.

"I use it for you, Arthur," he whispered. "Only for you, I swear."

"Pendragons punish magic with death," Alvarr reminded him. "You're much better off using it for me – or for yourself, rather."

The prince narrowed his eyes, searching Merlin's another long moment. And when Merlin blinked, releasing another tear, the prince lifted his chin to address Alvarr with royal insolence. "I don't believe it," he announced. "I haven't seen any evidence that Merlin has magic, the idea is ridiculous. He'd say anything to protect me."

Merlin's body slouched as he exhaled relief, and Alvarr frowned. This wasn't going the way he wanted it to, at all.

"Fine," he huffed, dusting the flame from his fingertips to pick at the poppet. Finding one hardened, withered strand of hair, he teased it loose and dropped it to the breeze, weakening the enchantment. "Now you should be able to manage enough for a demonstration."

Merlin darted a quick look at Arthur's challenging stare, then shook his head. "No, I won't. I – can't. I don't have…"

"I'll get that pin," Alvarr threatened, losing patience.

Merlin didn't even hesitate, shaking his head again, with more determination.

This time Alvarr drew the dagger from his belt, stabbing it quickly and carelessly toward the meat of the prince's shoulder. Not a killing blow, but the Pendragon hissed and twisted away. Alvarr followed; he'd pin him to the ground if he –

"No!" Merlin gasped. His eyes sparked gold – and the dagger twitched from Alvarr's hand, dropping with a rustle to the leaf-strewn ground.

"Very good," he approved, retrieving the blade. The boy hadn't even needed a spell. "Now do you see him for what he is, Pendragon?"

Merlin's head hung down between knees that sagged to either side, panting with the effort of pushing even a bit of magic past the poppet's loosened binding. The prince watched him a moment - then looked up at Alvarr with a blank sort of defiance.

"I still don't believe it," he declared. "For all I know, your little doll could be making it look like he's _got_ magic when he doesn't."

"That's stupid," Alvarr hissed. "Why on earth would I be interested in _him_ if he doesn't have magic?"

"How should I know?" Arthur shrugged. "Merlin's insolent and clumsy and foolish – though anything but boring… But sorcerers are stupid."

Merlin darted the prince a glare that he didn't even notice, and Alvarr was incensed.

"Stupid prince," he hissed. "Willfully blind." Furiously he picked at the melted strands around the figure's neck – but they wouldn't slacken further.

"Having trouble with your dolly?" The prince's voice dripped with mockery. "I've heard it said that magic rots reason, and now I suppose I'm seeing the –"

Alvarr cut him off, clenching his hand around the air in Pendragon's throat – anything to shut him up – and cursed, flinging the poppet to the ground. Where it was safe to obliterate it – and the spell – in an explosion of sparks.

"Now show him what you're capable of, Merlin!" he shouted.

…..*…... …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was beyond angry.

A good bit of fear fueled that emotion, he recognized – Arthur disarmed and bound; Merlin also, it seemed from his reaction to the straw figure in Alvarr's hand – but anger was easier and better than fear. So much he had learned from Arthur – which was another sort of fear. But that could be dealt with later, when his friend was safe.

Anger at Alvarr was obvious. But he could not figure what Arthur was playing at, deliberately oblivious and _taunting_ the rogue who held them at his mercy.

Merlin spared a thought to wonder if the patrol had been shown mercy, sometime in the darkness in his memory – between that broken twig-crack lifting Arthur's arm in a signal to halt, and waking here and now.

But when Alvarr threw the poppet down and obliterated the bonds on Merlin's magic, he didn't need to think twice. Life rushed released through his veins, and he didn't need his hands, or even words.

Instinct spiraled out from him in a trio of individual strands. One to send flying the three others of Alvarr's band – the only ones left after Arthur's raid, Merlin thought and hoped. One to crush the sorcerer himself back against the trunk of the box-elder tree. Hard enough to crack the back of his skull, Merlin was afraid and he'd never be the same if he even lived – did Merlin care if he lived… well maybe a little…

The third, of course, to Arthur, unraveling his bonds to the weakest threads in a heartbeat.

Arthur reacted even faster than that, as if _expecting_ – no, rather because he was trained to anticipate opportunity. One freed palm down on the ground to brace him rolling to get his feet under him, to sprint to safety but –

His other hand grasped Merlin's elbow.

The prince's momentum actually dragged him about half a pace before Arthur realized Merlin's dumbfounded inertia. His gaze dropped from automatically scouting a path for escape, to scowl at Merlin.

"Yours, too, idiot, come _on_!"

Strong fingers squeezed Merlin's bones at the elbow joint, and it was as much in reaction to the flash of sudden and clarifying pain that Merlin obeyed, as to anything more intentional. His bonds combusted, leaving a smudge of black at wrists and shirt-cuffs. Arthur hauled him to his feet and only turned loose his hold when Merlin's stumblings gained purpose and direction.

And they sprinted together.

Merlin had no idea where they were, which direction they were going – towards Camelot or away – but he followed Arthur implicitly as though nothing had changed.

Even though everything had. Merlin wondered if he should stop running, if they were in fact headed toward Camelot. He wondered if Arthur would keep running if he stopped – running from him. A sorcerer. _I have magic_.

But it was Arthur who stopped first – slowed, and walked a few paces, looking back, before bending over his knees to heave for air.

Merlin had passed him by a couple paces, but returned, not sure what to say. He remembered there had been blood on Arthur's face and in his hair.

"Are you all right?" he asked from sheer force of habit, reaching to touch the rusty-matted hair at the prince's temple, try to move it to see how bad the injury might be.

Arthur caught his hand and thrust it away – and how he did it, spoke volumes. Wordless, impatient – _I'm fine, it's nothing_ – a gesture Arthur had made a hundred times throughout their association, rejecting Merlin's concern as unnecessary.

No fear or distaste – _don't touch me, sorcerer_ – but rather, exactly his customary, _don't coddle me you big girl_.

As if nothing had changed.

"And you?" Arthur said, straightening and beginning to stride away – evidently sufficiently rested, and reassured that no one was following. "You went to sleep and fell off your horse. _Head_ first, so you should be fine…" He glanced, one sardonic eyebrow slightly raised.

Merlin's feet were following of their own accord, though he still wasn't convinced he should. And he was still half out of breath. "I'm a bit sore," he allowed. "Nothing broken. The others, the knights?"

Arthur's mouth tightened grimly as he searched the forest behind them, and shook his head. "That bastard Alvarr and his men. Killed them all, even the ones they ensorcelled so they couldn't fight back."

He couldn't help the wince, but didn't think Arthur noticed, and the prince didn't act like he meant anything _more_ by it. Two more steps, tramping determinedly through the underbrush.

Then Arthur added, referring to their renegade attackers, "Are they dead, do you think?"

Merlin shrugged, immediately babbling. "How should I know, didn't exactly wait to see – you were yanking my arm out of its socket so –"

Arthur stopped, and caught Merlin's gaze with his own before he could help it, and send his eyes skittering somewhere else. Anywhere else.

"When you did," the prince said deliberately, "what you did. Did you kill them?"

For a moment he considered lying, again. Seeking refuge in Arthur's refusal to believe the truth, turning his tactic back on him and claiming the excuse he'd made to fluster their enemy was truth…

But Merlin shrugged again, miserably. "I don't know," he whispered. "I only thought… you had to escape, so…" It occurred to him, that he'd found out Arthur's game – the prince _had_ believed, and had pretended willful ignorance to maneuver Alvarr into giving Merlin the opportunity Arthur needed.

"That," Arthur continued, draping his wrist over Merlin's shoulder to anchor them together, close but far. "Was a helluva lot of power. Did you mean it when you said, you use it for me? For us, for Camelot?"

Merlin nodded, and couldn't force any more strength into his voice. Or draw any of the misery out of it. "Yes."

"You've lied to me before," Arthur pointed out, turning his head a few degrees to convey inclination to disbelief. "Lots of times, now that I think on it."

"Yes, but… that was the truth."

The prince let his arm drop, studying Merlin hair to heels with an expressionless sort of deliberation. Then nodded to himself and turned to tramp onwards – looking back when Merlin lingered. "Aren't you coming home with me?"

"I'm – not sure I should?" Merlin couldn't keep a sudden unexpected hope from lifting his response into a question.

"Why not?"

"Ah… what are you going to do with me?"

"Put you straight to work heating bathwater and getting bloodstains out of my laundry," Arthur said promptly. Merlin couldn't work out whether that was a threat or a joke; Arthur rolled his eyes and explained, "Nothing. I'm not going to report you – not if you're on our side, you're not a threat. You'll have to go on keeping your secret if you want to stay – only, not from me."

"That's… you'd – lie to your father?" Merlin said incredulously. Which was stupid – did he want Arthur to change his mind? No – but right away, if he was going to at all.

"It's not a lie," Arthur stated, the blue of his gaze intent. "It's simply, omitting to tell a truth."

So the prince _understood_ that part of Merlin's secret; the relief was immense and nearly overwhelming. "You'd do that," Merlin said, "to protect me?"

Arthur returned the few steps to his side, slinging his elbow around Merlin's neck and forcing his spine to bend awkwardly, as he began to drag him along at a slow saunter. "You remember Lancelot," he said conversationally.

Merlin's heart fluttered – Lancelot had known – but couldn't find his throat, the bent position he was in. He grunted affirmation.

"I'd have kept the secret that he didn't actually inherit a title," Arthur said. "Because otherwise, he was a good fighter and a noble heart. A small fabrication about his… identity, and background. Shouldn't change my trust in him as a defender of the kingdom. Should it?"

Merlin straightened away from Arthur's arm, slapping away his halfhearted attempts to reassert control. "Did you just – compliment me?"

"Course not. I was talking of Lancelot."

"But comparing me to him. Favorably."

"Well, he did do an excellent job in the stables that first day…" Arthur grinned and cuffed the back of Merlin's head lightly.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"You are such an idiot, Merlin. Magic in Camelot."

Merlin bore the mocking roll of his prince's eyes and the sarcastic tone gladly. Because everything was different… and he followed the prince home.

"We have a lot to talk about, Merlin. Good thing it's also a _very_ long walk."


	3. Stay (1)

**A/N: This will contain a number of shifts of pov, but I think it won't be hard to follow… also it was long enough that it's split into three parts.**

 **Some dialogue from ep.4.7 "The Secret Sharer".**

 **Stay** , part 1

He knelt in the tiny dim shrine, eyes closed against the myriad flickers of candlelight that surrounded him, body and spirit, ears closed to the noise of the busy market street just beyond Lireht, his bodyguard. Since the warrior was now more priest, so long had he been waiting.

The scent of the candles – smoke and wax and sandalwood - was his focus. Each one lit as a prayer, or a memorial. For the dead… for the living… for the future.

More than one was his. He'd been hounded through the four corners of the Five Kingdoms in his lifetime, and hadn't yet found the one he sought. Now, though – he sensed her at the doorway even as she claimed his expectation from Lireht, who stood silently aside to allow her entrance.

And opened his eyes to see – "Morgana Pendragon. High Priestess of the Triple Goddess, and the last of your kind."

That was prophecy also, though for many years he'd expected the last High Priestess would have been Morgause Gorlois. Evidently the beautiful blonde witch had taken short cuts and made bargains to ensure that her high-risk military endeavors wouldn't cut her line short before due time.

He watched Morgana as she spoke of her purpose in seeking him out – abduction, as though he was _only_ a mercenary – and she seemed completely oblivious to the whispers of the shrine. The hope, the longing each still-burning wick represented, marking time passing… waiting. They increased substantially at the mention of -

 _Camelot_.

"From what I hear," Alator said slowly, "the young king follows Uther's ways."

And that was wrong. The young Pendragon – King Arthur – was _not_ destined to oppose magic. What had gone wrong?

He pondered, while this High Priestess – fairly mercenary herself, or so it seemed to him – spoke of payment, and bartering away the treasures of her order and an unusual artifact that could only be used for white magic. And they reached the name, the purpose of her visit, the base target of her self-centered ire.

 _Emrys_.

She spat the name with hate, having just claimed the prophesied figure of light and hope and redemption, as a mortal enemy.

Alator controlled his reaction with an effort. Emrys was the enemy of no one who had magic, save those who declared themselves against himself and his prophesied king… who still supported Uther's Ban. Which was, essentially, a failure of Emrys, who was prophetically tasked to be the magical advisor and guide of the Once and Future King.

And fate had handed Alator the chance to right the course of history.

"It is as you wish," he said, carefully. "I will perform this task for you." Abduct the man who could lead him to Emrys. And then…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Alator was on his toes, in Camelot. Not because he and Lireht were in any danger from the warriors there, but… Emrys. If Gaius the renowned court physician really was in contact with Emrys, there was no telling what protection the great sorcerer might have given him.

But there was nothing, save a residual sense of power in the chamber where they found the old man.

"Sleep," Alator commanded, and watched the physician melt back into Lireht's sizeable arms.

Almost disappointed. It had been too easy.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Kemeray. The rocky valley, the ridge that formed a land-bridge silhouetted picturesquely against the sky. The cliff-face riddled with mining-caves.

Alator had chosen the location carefully. It was an iron mine. And iron had the interesting property of causing interference with the flow of magic.

Certain chambers left hollowed as the miners passed through, seeking veins and deposits, were virtually unaffected by the phenomena. The place where he positioned torches and a circular trench around a tipped block of stone for Gaius' interrogation, was one such. And he carried his staff, the thick head carved in a swirl of characters, usually a repository of magical energy which he could draw upon reliably, though he wouldn't need its vestiges here.

He was surprised when the old man resisted, momentary quelling his flames. _Acwence tha baelblyse…_

But not disappointed. It was to be a battle of wills, two old men of magic – soldier against healer. Renegade against courtier.

"Feel the fire roar deep within you. Feel your thoughts begin to simmer. Let them flee the rushing flames. Let them run like burning oil. Let them escape. Allow them free, Gaius…"

As he began to plumb the physician's depths, he realized, it was Gaius' fault. He knew Emrys, indeed, intimately well – as well as he knew the prophesied king. His the decision and pressure and advice that kept them separate, that shackled Emrys in his destined work. That kept magic hunted and murdered and suppressed.

Ruthlessly Alator punished, ripping aside mental defenses, ignoring novice tricks of distraction, pursuing the identity of the great sorcerer who skulked in the dark, constrained by Gaius' fear of Uther's shadow… And finally found Emrys.

Not some canny old man, like the two of them were, secure in the many-layered habits of survival - manipulation and isolation, and in the very long game there was little that was not expendable. _Not_ some enigmatic game-player, moving people like pieces on a board with little thought or care beyond the victory. Not some subtle riddle-reader, holding back for personal gain or amusement.

A boy. A very young man, with the loves and fears and inexperience of youth.

Fettered by old Gaius' caution and secrecy for his own good, to restrain an impetuous and thoughtlessly generous nature. Because this old man – weak and sweat-streaked and nearly broken beneath Alator's magic – loved him.

Emrys was still someone's son. Still in training, himself. Still prone to mistakes made from the heart.

Alator knew him, even as Gaius surrendered the name.

 _Merlin._

He stepped back, thoughtful, letting the fires of his vengeful inquisition die.

The two sides of the coin stood back to back. Neither seeing the other truly because neither could be truly seen. Not with this ignorance between them.

So maybe his plans for confronting Emrys in his failure to properly mold and instruct the young king could do with a bit of reorganization.

 _My lord_ , Lireht said. The only communication he was capable of, anymore, having had his tongue cut out as a boy himself, courtesy of Uther's prejudice, fanatical even so long ago.

Startled, Alator jerked his head toward the tunnel entrance, expecting to see his muscle-clad friend – remembering a moment later that he'd remained in a lookout position at the cave mouth. _What is it?_

 _Riders approach._

 _Who?_ He waited – while he waited, he wiped Gaius' face of sweat and grime, offered the semi-conscious physician a few dribbles of water to drink.

 _Two men with torches_ , Lireht finally reported. _Intercepted by a second group – four knights._

 _For aid or arrest?_

 _I am sorry, master, it isn't clear. They're arguing and exchanging insults… but making to enter the cave together._

 _Lure them toward the lower workings,_ Alator instructed. _I will meet you there_.

He checked Gaius again – coaxed him to swallow two more mouthfuls of water, before leaving him to an unconscious rest.

The lower workings. Still rich with the iron ore that coated the ground in reddish dust. Alator had nearly depleted the magic of his staff in constructing a very small prison cell from the abandoned mine timbers. It was meant to hold Emrys comfortably away from the self-defensive magic that would certainly be dangerous for Alator, for whatever length of time might be necessary to convince him of the error of his ways, but it could also hold half a dozen men at a pinch. And perhaps Emrys would come for his friend Gaius anyway, sooner or later – but he'd definitely come at a threat to a handful of his kings' knights. Or the king himself might come, Alator had heard that Arthur favored fighting his own battles, still. And that would be sure to bring Emrys.

That, or more knights would be sent. Then, Alator would have to get creative in manufacturing more such holding cells. There was certainly room in this honeycomb of chambers and passages for Camelot's hundreds.

The thought amused him as he waited, poised at the head of the steep slanting shaft that ended in his makeshift mine-timber prison. Keeping his distance from the enchantment-mirage he'd constructed and inverted, so it should be imperceptible even to Emrys.

He heard voices, echoing and approaching. Bickering, indeed.

"Didn't have to come…"

"… Manservant and a wayward knight… out of the citadel gates after dark…"

"…'Re you in the lead, anyway?"

And then Alator heard pure gold disguised as a sneer. "Because I'm the king, _Mer_ lin."

Both of them. He took a deep breath to contain elation and anticipation and… trepidation, if he was honest. Nearly missing the rest of the king's comment about implied leadership and knights' oaths, as Lireht passed Alator in the tunnel, leaving the footprints that the others were following in the silent dark.

"Still think we ought to have split up…" The mumble carried to them more clearly, along with a flicker of light.

Alator, and Lireht behind him, stood in a passage that led away from the chamber the knights were just reaching; he calculated that they'd all step within his enchantment before they noticed him.

"I dunno, Arthur," a different voice said, carelessly familiar in a habitual way, which was in itself astonishing – "Not sure why any abductors would bring Gaius this deep…"

A young man strode into view, sideways to Alator's position, the light from his upraised torch gleaming from golden hair as he bent his head to study the ground, the footprints Lireht had left in the loose earth – and which stopped at the center of the room. He wore a ring on his left hand, resting casually but purposefully on the hilt of the sword belted around his mail shirt – but otherwise, no mark of royalty distinguished him from two others who caught up and stepped around him as he came to a puzzled halt at Lireht's last half-footprint.

One had dark hair, flowing over his collar; the other's was shorter and curly, reflecting red from the tint of the cave walls and floor. The dark-haired one faced away from Alator, studying the irregularities of the far wall of the chamber, bending to examine another small waist-high tunnel that led nowhere. But the curly-haired one caught sight of Alator – and Lireht silent behind him – almost immediately.

"Sire!" he gasped in warning, pointing.

Alator spoke the spell he had prepared, and power rushed forth from his staff to accomplish his will. All three young men wavered, catching their balance as their boots were magically planted solid in place. The blonde king managed to draw his sword also, by dint of allowing his weight to lean back against the dark-haired knight – who shoved him back upright into a defensive stance.

Alator lifted his hands to demonstrate passivity, and stepped out to see the rest of the chamber.

Two more knights, bringing the total to five, as Lireht had said. One very big, with massive arms left bare by mail and under-shirt. Possibly bigger than Lireht. And a smaller, dark-skinned one – both of whom were also caught in Alator's spell.

"Now we know why they took Gaius," the one with long dark hair said, grinning like a warrior who relished danger. "A trap."

"Who are you?" the king demanded.

"Your Majesty," Alator said, bowing without dropping his eyes. Which one was Emrys, then? Posing as a knight? Or Merlin, as he was commonly called. "I am –"

"Where is Gaius?"

Alator recognized the voice as the one bickering with the king most freely, as they came down the passage. He looked between the knights to the last figure, the servant just inside the tunnel's mouth.

Dressed in a shabby brown jacket over a blue shirt with a red kerchief bound around his neck, the boy braced himself with open hands against the rough red stone of the cave wall. Perhaps in readiness to launch himself bodily at Alator – there was menace and intent in his eyes and the lines of his face and neck and hands – in spite of the obvious enchantment that lay between them. Or perhaps he was feeling the effect of the iron that ran through the stone surrounding them in an irregular web of deposit and cache.

A servant, though? Emrys? If not for the iron of the mine, Alator was sure he could sense enough of that sort of power to know for certain.

"If you've hurt him…" the boy continued, as if they two were alone in the room, and he had the clear upper hand.

Alator exhaled. That was Emrys.

"Gaius is uninjured," he informed them, tucking his hands into his sleeves. "He will be returned to Camelot this very night. There are those, I assume, who will care for him there."

He glanced back, meeting Lireht's eyes; his bodyguard and best friend nodded, understanding his mission, and turned to leave.

In that moment, when his attention was distracted, the king twisted to give a command of his own, low and hurried. "Merlin if your feet are free, run! that's an order! Get back to Camelot, warn Agravaine – he can lead a rescue –"

Merlin, Alator was satisfied to note, didn't budge. But it wasn't because he was caught in the enchantment – it was because his king was.

"Lord Agravaine?" Alator said. "I wouldn't bother, if I was you. He's in league with the Lady Morgana, who wants you dead." And Emrys also – who didn't look surprised; he must have known this already. Of course he had known this already. "He it was who let us into the citadel to take Gaius. He was to be tortured for information."

"If you've hurt him –" Merlin said again, more menacingly. He pushed away from the wall, but paused just shy of the enchantment to glance down at its invisible edge.

Alator stretched the truth a bit. "Gaius is fine."

"So what now?" King Arthur interrupted. "You've – caught us." He threw a glare at Merlin over his shoulder, probably a reprimand for the disobeyed order to run. "What do you intend to do?"

"I'm going to keep you here for a time," Alator said.

"For ransom?" the king challenged.

"For a lesson." Alator didn't smile at the wary looks the fighting men exchanged. Uncertainty entered Emrys' expression as he spared a glance for his sovereign.

"And what of Merlin?" the dark-haired knight said cautiously. "He's only a servant. You're going to let him go?"

Emrys was hiding his magic from his king, still. Alator guessed, as long as he didn't threaten King Arthur, he wouldn't provoke the other sorcerer's response. He had anticipated, however, a single prisoner and an immediate private conversation.

"Are you leaving?" Alator asked him, readying the magic that would dissolve the illusion of the floor, and drop them down the shaft to the cell in the lower workings. "Or staying?"

Perhaps Emrys could read the intention of the spell in spite of the inversion that hid it. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he knew that the deeper level was entirely remote from magic's touch, and would remain to have that conversation with Alator apart from the others' hearing.

Eyes on Alator, Merlin lifted his chin and ignored the mixed protests and orders from the others, taking one long step forward into the enchantment.

"You _idiot_!" the king growled, frustrated.

Alator experienced the opposite emotion, and allowed himself a smile – it was high time the king recognized the extraordinary loyalty of his extraordinary servant. The dust of the floor shimmered, as he released that spell –

Then _dropped_ , along with four knights, a king, and a sorcerer.

Alator called the torch and the king's unsheathed sword to his hand, as a precaution of his own. It wasn't that far to fall. Injuries would be minimal. But there was no way out of the cell – and magic was blocked in that lowest chamber where the cell was positioned. Ignoring the clamor of voices – distant and low, now – he turned and made his way to the entrance of the mine.

His captives could resign and accustom themselves to temporary captivity, and he'd begin to deal with them later. Lireht would see Gaius returned to Camelot, but Agravaine would surely not be ignorant of the young king's whereabouts. Alator guessed that the traitor would ride straightaway for his mistress – and that she would come to Kemeray, believing herself in command of the situation.

A notion he intended to disabuse her of.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The floor of the cave disappeared. Gravity disappeared.

Reality disappeared.

The knights shouted surprise-shock-fear. If Arthur's voice was among them, Merlin couldn't pick it out. Light disappeared.

Or maybe he only had his eyes shut, anticipating – The ground slammed into him, rock-hard.

Maybe he bounced. Or maybe one of the others landed on him. All the air disappeared also – maybe being used up by the men who were still yelling, cursing, flailing and kicking.

Merlin dragged shaking fingers through the loose dirt beneath his face, all the way to bedrock, to make sure that was _down_. Because any sense of direction – as well as his stomach and lungs – had been left up there. Wherever they had fallen from.

"Is everyone all right? You fellows? Anyone hurt?"

One of the knights. He didn't know who.

He couldn't breathe – still upside-down, disoriented – and his magic. Must have been left behind, or disappeared, also. He felt shaky and empty, inside; he'd never felt like this.

Drowning. Gaping like a fish out of water. Submerged in the wrong medium or deprived of his medium or…

"Anything broken? And no, Gwaine, a bruised backside doesn't count for any sympathy…"

He'd been in a cave before, not so very different from this, but vastly opposite. Crystals thrumming with life, sparkling with a million points of light, overflowing with images of experience. Confusing in its riches of sensation – more more more – pastpresentfuture…

This cave was dead-dark. Nothing to be sensed, nothing to be touched. No magic. He spooked a little, trying to lash out – it was dark, no one would see, no one would hear his voice out of the babble of others –

 _Arthur? Sire? Where's Arthur? He's here – My lord, are you all right?_

Five spells, he knew. After once being trapped in a tomb of stone in the bowels of Camelot by troll magic, he knew spells to get out of places like this, but.

There was no magic. There was no magic. _There was no_ –

"I'm all right."

Arthur, with that little catch in his voice that made Merlin alert to the fact that the king's body was in contact with his, along the backs of his legs in the darkness. And all right wasn't _all right_. He scrambled toward his king -

up or down, over or under were they all suspended in midair or stuck to a cave ceiling like stalagmi- no, it was the other one, stalactites –

He scraped knuckles and grazed his head against rough wood - a thick solid upright beam he pushed away from in turning to find his master.

"Arthur," he managed. "What's wrong? Where are you hurt?"

There was light, he realized, a dim glow far above them – the effect where they were was not unlike starlight with no moon. Shadows and impressions the eyes strained to resolve. Arthur was seated, his back to the wall, legs partially stretched in front of him. One of the others crouched at his other side, as Merlin lifted and arranged his limbs to kneeling beside the king.

"My shoulder. My chest. Probably just bruised –" Arthur shifted, and hissed involuntarily.

Merlin rose to change the angle of his examination, to ease his fingers past the neckline of Arthur's chainmail – and of a sudden experienced the sensation that his movement would cause him to keep rising into the air – into the _ether_ \- and drift away. He clutched at Arthur in momentary panic.

"Ow – damn – keep off if you're going to be clumsy about it!" The king reacted pained-annoyed.

"Sorry." The sensation passed and Merlin continued, making an effort to be more gentle. "I told you, you shouldn't have come."

"And I told you, when my physician leaves in suspicious circumstances and my manservant and a knight who's supposed to be on duty –" Arthur cut himself off, inhaling swiftly through his nostrils.

Merlin had found the injury. "This is it, nowhere else?" he said. "I think your collarbone is cracked. Here."

He fumbled under the edges of his jacket – too hot, take it off – to unfasten his belt. His stomach rolled uneasily, which was odd, but he focused on tying the strap of leather around Arthur's opposite shoulder, and under the elbow of the arm on the injured side.

"Try to keep from moving too much," he said, "and this'll help with the pain, stabilizing the bone."

The others kept moving, shuffling, boots in dirt. The sound magnified til it filled his ears like water and he gritted his teeth against the raw irritation.

"There's no way out," Gwaine reported. "No door, just these timbers making a cell…"

Someone's knee jammed into Merlin's back, and he arched involuntarily away from the unintentional contact, his gut churning with nerves.

"Could we climb them?" Percival suggested.

"Arthur can't," Leon pointed out.

"Maybe if Elyan stood on Percival's shoulders, he could climb –"

"…Get out –"

"Get back to Camelot for help –"

It was too dark to see properly, but Merlin felt the weight of Arthur's gaze, accusing him of making the wrong choice. _Should have gone for help. You're not a fighter. You can't do anything against a sorcerer_ … He'd heard it all before, in some variation.

"I'm not leaving you," Merlin whispered. Whether Arthur heard him or not. It was his life, his destiny, in four words.

"Maybe we can use our swords to hack through a beam or two –"

"No, don't," Elyan said from the corner opposite Merlin – what a tiny space, it was so hot. "These are mine timbers. That means the moisture that soaked into them would have contained the dust of the iron ore – they're nearly stone, themselves. You'll shatter your blade and barely nick them."

"Maybe if we dig…"

The tall shadows of the knights swooped downward and the scuffling, scraping sounds of gloved hands and belt-daggers at the timbers and in the stone of the floor swirled around him. Over him, through him – he was spinning again in every direction at once, weightless and lost and crushed and hollow…

He managed to spin away from Arthur before he vomited what little dinner Gwen had made him eat, however many hours ago it had been.

Not once. Not twice. But again, and again – spitting his mouth clear and trying to wipe drool from his lips and cold sweat all over his body and – his muscles all wrenching backwards to vomit again.

And then, when his stomach and throat constricted, nothing came up, and he swallowed reflexively. Again.

Reached a shaky hand to scrub his mouth with his sleeve. Collapsed to sitting before thinking about the slope of the ground and where the liquids which should have been inside him might have run to –

Awkward silence. And fiery-hot shame. He yanked his kerchief over his head to blot sweat awkwardly from his face.

"Merlin?" someone said.

He didn't know who; it sounded like his ears were full of moving air or water, a subtle rushing noise filled with purposeless urgency.

Someone else said, "Did he hit his head? Sometimes if you hit your head too hard –"

"I didn't," he said aloud. His voice sounded strange, as if his mouth had forgotten how to talk, and was only good for spewing out what it shouldn't. "I'm all… right. It's just…"

Medical explanation failed him – the ability to fabricate failed him – and exhaustion crashed down like the ceiling, like the floor, again. Weariness whirled around and through him and he thought – _oh no, not again_.

"Going to… lie down for a minute. Arthur. If you're okay?"

"Yeah. If you… need to." He could tell by the sound of the king's voice, the expression on his face.

Concern and ignorance and mild annoyance at both feelings. _What do I do. I don't know._ _But I'm supposed to know_ … When that happened, there was default to just… being _king_.

So Merlin hitched himself round – wary of putting a hand in his own vomit in the dark, and curled up on the ground, his back against Arthur's leg on his injured side. The contact felt comfortable, rather than the reverse, and Arthur didn't try to scoot away as if he thought they both needed space between them.

He closed his eyes against the incongruous vertigo. Listened to the knights lower their voices, but question-question-question when the only one with answers was that enigmatic bald sorcerer…

Darkness beckoned, and he accepted with reckless gratitude.


	4. Stay (2)

**Stay,** part 2

It was all Leon's fault, he knew that.

The moment when Percival and Elyan, fresh in from patrol, stopped him at the juncture of the citadel hallway to mention seeing Merlin and Gwaine heading out – and he heard his king's voice at the other end of the corridor. "What's going on?"

 _Should have lied_ , Leon reflected, sliding down to a crouched position in the corner of the tiny dark cell, keeping his feet under him because both Merlin and Arthur were sprawled out, relatively speaking. Beside Leon, Percival as the biggest and Elyan as the smallest, were negotiating shared space – and in the opposite corner, Gwaine remained restlessly on his feet.

 _I am sorry, sire_ , he thought, but could not say, here and now. Not before the other knights, who were his subordinates. Not before Merlin, who saw everything and knew more and bested them all for compassion and loyalty.

Though maybe right now, he wouldn't hear Leon's whispered apology, after all.

"Arthur," Merlin said, not turning from where he was curled toward the great timber-bars of their cell. His tone was slightly off, as though nothing was wrong and they were all falling peacefully to sleep, one by one beneath the stars on some casual outing. "Arthur?"

The king – in a brown study, and who could blame him – grunted.

"D'you think he was telling the truth? About letting Gaius go?"

One could barely see in the grayest of dim, the only illumination an indirect glow from the chamber high above, where they'd fallen from. But Leon knew Arthur would be meeting his eyes, if he could, over a shared worry. The same worry that was drawing silent intensity from the other knights. Because this was the third time Merlin had asked the same question.

"Someone else want to answer this time?" Gwaine said, leaning against the rock wall that provided the fourth boundary of their cell, above Arthur. "Someone he listens to better than Arthur?"

"Shut up," Arthur growled – glancing up, by the sound of his voice. "Merlin…" He shuffled his position, when it probably pained him to move. "I don't see what the sorcerer gains by lying, in this instance. If Gaius was abducted to… draw me out. It worked. I'm here. There's no reason for them to keep Gaius."

Except, the old man presumably knew where he'd been taken, which would direct a rescue mission, which the sorcerer would presumably wish to avoid… unless he had ways of avoiding it, with magic.

Merlin didn't respond, and Leon wondered if he'd absorbed the king's judgment, this time.

"I make it fourth watch," Percival said to Leon in a low voice, though the rest probably heard anyway. Except maybe Merlin. "Almost dawn."

Enough of a question for Leon to agree, "I would say so, yes." Eight hours since they'd left the citadel, or thereabouts.

Arthur sighed at their disquiet. "Regardless of the state of Camelot's defenses – which we can do nothing about, at the moment – the sorcerer more than implied his return."

Yes, he had. That _lesson_ he'd mentioned. It was only logical to assume he meant, a lesson for the king. The rest of them didn't matter, unless it was as leverage. Leon bit his tongue on a question of his own, D'you suppose the sorcerer would have gloated if he intended taking Camelot by force in our absence… And because he hadn't, could they assume Camelot wasn't his goal, and rest easy on that count, at least?

"What about your uncle?" Gwaine said, sounding uncharacteristically thoughtful. But at the same time, still more reckless than any of the others – even including Leon – dared to be, voicing the query aloud.

"What about my uncle?" Arthur shot back.

Geoffrey of Monmouth would rally the council and hold the citadel in the event of an attack, Leon was sure. The warriors of Camelot knew their business well enough to hold. The trouble would come if the king was ransomed for the citadel's surrender, or some such… The only man who'd dare step beyond his bounds to take the mantle of leadership, though, would be Lord Agravaine – but what when his loyalties were called into question?

"The sorcerer claimed he was the traitor," Gwaine continued. Leon recognized that, deprived of the opportunity for action, his fellow knight would choose to talk. "Letting them into the citadel to take Gaius and torture him for information…"

"He also said Gaius was fine," Arthur stated.

"Not the point," Gwaine said - brave or foolish, or both. "Merlin never trusted Agravaine, did you know that?"

Silence from the king – who was probably looking in the direction of the prone servant.

Leon shifted uneasily to keep circulation flowing from bent legs to his feet, bruises pulsing unpleasantly in several places on his body – the same for all of them, probably. And Merlin must have hit his head, to react so violently ill – and now so confused and lethargic. It was hardest to bear when Merlin suffered. He was the youngest, the least trained to expect and endure injury.

"So – Agravaine." Gwaine was not going to let the topic go, short of order or threat. "Can you believe it?"

Percival and Elyan shuffled uncomfortably and said nothing, but theirs was not the silence of incredulity. And Leon felt, rather than saw, Arthur's gaze on him again.

"Can you believe it?" the king said softly.

 _I can_ , was the honest answer. But the man wasn't Leon's uncle.

"He was one of the few people who knew the secret of our route through the Valley of the Fallen Kings, a fortnight ago," Leon answered, the same way. The time Merlin was lost. He didn't have to say that; they'd all thought it might be for good, and only Arthur and Gwaine had believed otherwise.

Arthur put a careful hand sideways on Merlin's shoulder, as if he was thinking of those days, too. The young servant made no sound or movement that Leon perceived, but Arthur removed his hand in reactive swiftness. "Merlin said, my uncle was making up the story about Gaius leaving because of his own guilty conscience."

"To my knowledge, Lord Agravaine has never spoken an outright lie," Leon said. "But…"

"But," Arthur echoed. Without disagreement.

"Sire," Percival said. "All of us have proven that we'd die for you, in service to Camelot. Lord Agravaine has not taken the chance to prove the same, in any of the battles we've fought."

And Percival rarely spoke up. Leon answered him so Arthur could hear the counterargument without owning it. "Lord Agravaine is not a warrior. And he kept distance from Camelot while Uther was alive for reasons known best to the two of them."

Arthur grunted.

And Leon knew what he was thinking. Family, though. Arthur's blood, not Morgana's – why would Agravaine's loyalty lie with her? If he understood it correctly, and if there was not another spy or traitor in Camelot, it was either, Gaius had betrayed Merlin in that incident a fortnight ago, or Agravaine had betrayed Arthur.

But he'd seen Gaius' devotion to Merlin, they all had. Years of it, and reciprocated. Proven loyalty. Agravaine _declared_ that he stood with Arthur, but…

"Boys," Gwaine said abruptly, pushing away from the rock wall and looking up.

There was a figure visible in the dim glow above them, at the edge of the shaft that had tumbled them down into the waiting cell. Leon glimpsed the gleam of torchlight from a bald head – but also bare muscular shoulders and arms. Not Alator – an accomplice, then?

A growing shadow eclipsed the light of the shaft, and Gwaine reached up to receive a large rough bag, let down on a rope.

Leon put an elbow against one of the timbers, thinking suddenly of leaping for that rope – even if it was let go of, they might be able to do something with a rope toward their own escape –

But it twitched, and released the bag, and the unknown man above them yanked it up.

Gwaine, opening the mouth of the bag, said succinctly, "Food. And a waterskin. Hey, mate, can you toss down a torch? I like to see what I'm eating!"

A moment later, Gwaine was dropping the bag into Arthur's lap, leaning forward to catch the falling torch before it could burn any of them in landing – Percival scrambled to back him up in case he missed – which he didn't, and it did feel more comfortable, with better light. Gwaine smiled in satisfaction, setting the torch on the ground and leaning it against one of the side timbers – which didn't catch. Disappointing.

"Merlin," Arthur said, and moved his boot to nudge one of the servant's legs when he didn't respond. "Merlin, wake up. There's food."

"You don't think they'd try to poison us?" Gwaine asked Elyan, kneeling over Arthur to reach into the bag. "I'll try it first, then you'll know it's safe."

"That's really generous of you, Gwaine," Elyan remarked sarcastically.

"Merlin," Arthur said – and maybe Leon was the only one to catch that hint of worry in his voice. He let Gwaine appropriate their meal, to poke his servant with his opposite hand, leaving his injured side unmoving. "Wake up, you lazy idiot."

A moment, for Leon's own worry to wake again, before Merlin grunted and shuffled to his back. Because they'd all seen Arthur without Merlin, for a few days those few weeks ago. Hollow and cheerless – functioning, but without hope. However that worked. And surely Arthur himself couldn't forget.

"What?" Merlin said.

"Sit up," the king instructed. "They've given us food, and water."

"There's bread," Gwaine said. "Some dried meat. A couple apples… How's your head, mate?"

"Still on my… shoulders?" Merlin said, sounding faintly uncertain. "I don't want… to eat anything." Not after that bout of unexplained vomiting; Leon sympathized.

"Come on, you've got to try," Arthur ordered, accepting a torn piece of the loaf from Gwaine. He tore off a hunk with his own teeth and dropped the rest on Merlin's chest, saying indistinctly around his first mouthful, "Here. Don't say I never gave you anything."

The torch was placed to throw Arthur's shadow across Merlin, but as Leon received his share – slightly stale, but still admitted welcome in a grudging way – he watched Merlin pick crumbs and pass them slowly to his lips. If Arthur was watching and dissatisfied, at least he didn't say anything.

The waterskin came around to Leon after the other three knights. He offered it first to Arthur, who declined with a shake of his head; his one hand was still occupied with a strip of dried meat. Leon washed his bread down with two careful swallows, and made to pass it to Merlin.

"Take this," he said to the servant. "You've got to drink some water. It'll help settle your stomach, and keep your strength up."

For a long moment he believed Merlin was going to refuse. Then the servant set his bread down on the dirt next to Arthur's knee, and used one of the timbers that hemmed them in, to drag himself upright. For another long moment he hesitated over the spout of the waterskin, before lifting and swallowing. Once, then twice. Then lowered the skin to his lap.

Swallowed again. Breathed – sucked in another quick breath… swallowed – gasped –

And flung the waterskin aside, turning to retch again on the dirt floor at the edge of their cell.

Percival caught up the skin so the water didn't leak out. Gwaine cursed softly – and Arthur frowned at Leon over Merlin's bent and heaving back.

Leon scooted around to put a stabilizing hand on the boy, and make sure he didn't put a hand or knee in the vomit, involuntarily. The loose earth could soak it up; Leon thought he could probably push the soiled clods right out of the cell in a minute, when… Merlin finished…

Crumbs. And a couple trickles of water. But the wretched sounds of misery continued. Slowing, weakening – Leon didn't think he'd ever seen someone so ill.

"That's not from a bump on the head, still, d'you think?" Gwaine asked, behind them.

Merlin rocked, swallowing convulsively – and barely missed coming down in it, as he collapsed. " 'M'all right," he moaned, in the absolute silence of everyone else's frozen anxiety. " 'M'all… right."

Leon didn't think anyone believed him. No one said anything.

He didn't know what else to do, than scrape a couple handfuls of loose earth over the mess, prepare to shove it between two of the timbers – then paused. Cursed silently. But… didn't think it was best to keep this to himself.

"What is it?" Arthur said, immediately alert to Leon's hesitation.

"I could be wrong, sire," he said. _I'm not_. "But there seems to be… blood here."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The darkness spun in random, loopy whirls, trying to tip Merlin off into – nothingness.

He resisted. He wasn't sure why.

It was raining. It felt like it was raining, cool shards that cut through him effortlessly like drops of lightning, leaving fiery trails and.

Blood where there should have been bone. Bone that dissolved and washed through him like choppy storm-waves, with no pattern to adjust to, no crest to brace for or trough to relax into even momentarily. All his organs sloshed unsteadily around his insides and he wanted to weep, _I'm not even moving_ …

This was all so alarmingly wrong. He had to fix it. No one else would, or could…

He swallowed. And again. Again. It felt like that was the only way he'd keep his insides inside, and not spew them out onto the cave floor – which never would stay put, or solid. It was above him, behind him, now melting away, now slamming into him from an unexpected direction. Cramps seized all his joints, slowly turning them to bone.

"Merlin?"

Someone said his name, and it ricocheted around the inside of his skull, liquifying everything in its path and bleeding warmth from his ears and down the back of his neck.

Say the name again, anyway? He had to cling to his identity, or it would melt and wash away as well – there was something he had to do, but he couldn't remember what, and didn't know how… Existence was good enough for now, wasn't it? Except he wasn't sure he wanted to accomplish it, if the converse meant peaceful and painless oblivion…

"Food, Merlin. Try to eat something…"

"Try a little of the water again, see if he can keep it down this time."

Merlin was his name. He moaned at the feel of something at his lips and teeth – soft teeth making dents in each other as he clenched his jaw, and hard-crusted lips – and tried to retreat.

"It's been almost a full day. If he doesn't drink…"

Liquid gushed over his lips, and he swallowed reflexively, his throat sticking sore to itself, his tongue tasting sour-rotten. More liquid trickled – hotter or colder than his body temperature, he couldn't tell. He couldn't remember how to swallow – did he want to swallow? – and choked.

And coughed til he gagged.

Dimly he realized he was lying down, if he didn't at least roll over the vomit was going to wash up his throat and mouth and fill up his nose. So he rolled, and got an elbow under him. It bent and wavered like a reed and it didn't feel like it belonged to him.

"Hold his head, he's going to –"

He didn't care if it got on his hand, or on his clothes, or anywhere else really, he just didn't want it in his lungs. His head swung so low that the ground spattered metallic regurgitated liquid back into his face.

Again. And again. His legs were sore from vomiting, he was going to lose control of other functions, and each muscle in the core of his body was a red-hot wire drawn to snapping.

He fought it. Swallowed convulsively, breathed shallowly. Reality was the stench and taste of bile.

Someone said, _There's more blood_. Someone cursed, obscenely and bitterly.

Someone wiped his face with sand, it felt like, and said, _If he can't_ …

Arthur said, "Merlin?"

He opened his eyes. Arthur's face in his vision wouldn't hold still, but bobbed and circled and he couldn't focus but some instinct told him, Arthur was all right. That was good enough for him, but Arthur appeared to be frowning. And that was often Merlin's fault.

Merlin managed a smile. "Sorry," he said.

"Not good enough." Arthur's voice was tight, as if with anger. "You told me you wouldn't leave me…"

A groan crawled its way up his tormented throat, but it was one of acquiescence. And he whimpered. "Yes, my lord…"

Continued existence it was, then.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*… …..*….. …..*…..

Leon had learned patience and discretion under Uther. He could hold himself still in any circumstances – it was not so different from younger days spent on guard duty in the council room or the receiving chamber, when the only diversion possible was watching the other people in the room. This room, was very small, and the men in it familiar to him – but the habit remained.

Percival had a surprising amount of patience, also, and the welcome ability to relax his very large frame. Gwaine, however, was not a patient man. He couldn't sit – but neither could he pace, and he twitched and fidgeted, wanting to. Elyan, beside Percival in the corner, was also wishing he had something to do – but unlike Gwaine, he was focused on his hands, not his feet. Wanting tools and heat and purpose and accomplishment. Fix something, make something.

That was background realization, though. Leon was focused on Arthur.

Because the king was blaming himself for their predicament. He didn't do well with lack of options for action or decision, either. Usually it was Merlin raising their spirits by raising Arthur's spirits with his illogical hopes or his inadvertently amusing clumsiness – that generosity that never held their teasing against him, and even seemed to relish it, on occasion. That quick yet gentle wit that had gotten him closer to Arthur than Leon ever would be.

But Merlin was the worst off of any of them. Sick, somehow, and they all _felt_ it, more than being trapped or at the mercy of a sorcerer. Merlin was sick, and this time Percival didn't nudge Leon and mention, _I make it to be dusk_ …

By unspoken consent they'd rationed the food in the bag and the water, in case they'd seen the last of Alator's bodyguard. Leon couldn't think of a man that big and muscular, who advertised the size and strength of his body in not covering it, in any other terms. That was what Percival was, after all, also.

The torch had burned down considerably, by now. It wouldn't last them the night. Leon deliberately closed his mind to the comparison of the torch to Merlin.

Then Gwaine's head came up like a hunting dog scenting prey – the light rose, a footfall scuffed – and Elyan and Percival both tensed, turning.

Leon got his knees under him and reached across for Arthur's good hand, slipping his other behind the king's elbow to help him to his feet. Arthur's chin was up, and his eyes glittered; Leon pressed Percival back so he wouldn't come between the king and –

The sorcerer who'd introduced himself by the name Alator, torch in hand, emerged from some passageway that lay hidden in the rough-hewn folds of the chamber.

There was room for him to move on all three sides of their tiny cell that weren't bounded by cave-rock, and still avoid a sword thrust as far between the timbers as any of them could reach it. Therefore there was no point in drawing sword – so none of them did. It was the king's privilege and responsibility to speak, but Arthur waited, _watching_.

Alator propped his torch in a cleft in the rock wall, and shuffled around toward Merlin's side of the cell, rather than Gwaine's, his eyes studying them all in turn – even dropping to the servant on the ground, who didn't show that he'd taken any note of the arrival, or the fact that the rest of them were on their feet.

"My apologies, Your Highness," Alator said, in a thick accent. "It was not my intention to leave you here so long without returning."

Arthur moved Leon out of the corner without taking his eyes from their captor, and the others shuffled around to accommodate the shift. Beside him now, Gwaine crouched to check on Merlin.

"Well, then," the king said. "Perhaps you could get to what you wanted to say, and then let us out of here."

"Impatient," Alator observed, leaning on his odd staff.

"My servant is… not well," Arthur said, and Leon could hear tightness in his voice that made an effort to calm. "If you haven't lied about returning Gaius to Camelot –"

"I haven't," Alator said. "He's there now. Though you will not need a physician to cure your servant."

"You've done something to him, then?" Arthur challenged, lifting his chin.

"Indirectly." The sorcerer moved further to the side, coming into Leon's vision beyond the king's chainmailed shoulder. He bent as if to view Merlin for himself between the timbers of the cell, in an attitude curiously similar to Gaius himself, Leon thought. "Which I do regret."

"Restore him, and I will banish you from Camelot, rather than see you executed," the king responded evenly.

"And _that_ is –" The sorcerer's eyes deep-set eyes glittered as he straightened to point the forefinger of the hand that gripped the staff, at Arthur, "what I wished to speak to you about. Your attitude toward magic."

Gwaine rose to his feet with an ugly roll of laughter. "You're joking, yeah? You attacked the king and imprisoned us and – I don't know, cursed our friend somehow, and you expect us to –"

"Quiet, Gwaine," the king growled without turning.

"That cell provides me protection from you," the sorcerer said, darkly amused. "Could I ask for an audience in your fine palace, and speak my mind effectively, and gain your attention – and then leave unharmed? I would do so. But your laws bar you from any who would use magic for any cause you'd consider good."

"Good?" Leon echoed without thinking. Though Arthur was not as sensitive about interruptions as his father had been, Leon was not as uncontrolled as Gwaine.

"Defense of the innocent, women and children who've never done wrong. Healing. Dozens of other ways I could mention. You think you've never met a good sorcerer because your father believed there wasn't one, and killed indiscriminately and _created_ many enemies."

Leon felt a shiver chase a chill up his spine. Hadn't there been executions where he'd _wondered_. Executions when Arthur himself had found excuse to be absent.

"What do you mean, _I think_?" Arthur demanded.

"There is one," Alator said. "A man of prophecy and legend, who bears the hopes of our kind, the burden and responsibility and privilege of returning magic to Albion. He is meant to serve and guide the once and future king in the union of the Five Kingdoms for peace. The king many believe, is you."

And – astonishingly – Alator made Arthur a very proper and respectful bow.

"That… makes no sense." Arthur sounded strained, but it was hard to read anything of his expression in the flickering torchlight, and very nearly behind him. "My father spent his life trying to eliminate magic from our kingdom – I have no reason to allow its return. And no sorcerer would willingly help m-"

"Ah," Alator said, lighting on the hesitation that even the others had noticed – Gwaine exchanging a glance with one of the other two behind Leon. "You have someone in mind. Emrys, perhaps, in a different guise?"

"Emrys," Arthur said.

Leon dared a glance of his own at his fellow knights – worried, attentive, interested.

"He it was whom the Lady Morgana was determined to find, through Gaius who knows his true identity. He who is her mortal enemy. He who has defended and protected Camelot and Your Highness from the shadow, seeking no advantage or negotiation, neither with you nor your father. But always giving and suffering in silent hope of the man he believes you will become. So much I saw in Gaius' mind."

"There is no such person," the king exclaimed.

Leon's mouth was dry, because… it made _sense_. So many times, the inexplicable happened, to their benefit, it seemed fate itself was on their side…

"You're – misinformed, at best," Arthur continued. Maybe a bit desperately. "Do you now seek to force me to some accord? I warn you, I will make no such legal agreement –"

"That is not my task," the sorcerer said.

Again, surprisingly. Who would go to such lengths to capture the king – and several other hostages – and then back off from making demands?

"What is, then?" Arthur said, with the air of going on the offensive, verbally. "You tortured Gaius for information about this Emrys, and you'll turn him over to Morgana in exchange for – what?"

"I took Gaius and questioned him, because the Lady Morgana and I had a similar resolution, to _find_ the legendary sorcerer. But I never shall betray the hope of my people to his enemy. I contrived this cell expecting Emrys to come for his friend Gaius, that I might speak with him in neutrality and truce and explanation, to determine why he yet hides from you, why he does not reveal himself and persuade and advise you in the return of magic."

"Because, if he exists, he knows that to be impossible," Arthur said. "It is against the law."

"And you are the king," Alator responded. "Was it legal for Uther Pendragon to change the law years ago, and proclaim magic forbidden?"

"Magic is evil," Arthur said.

"So you have been taught, and so you have seen because you have not seen Emrys," Alator said. "See him, listen to him. Learn from him – and then make your judgment with open eyes."

It was a very different speech than the angry vengeful rhetoric Leon had heard on occasion. And but for Arthur's collarbone broken in the fall – and Merlin's inexplicable malady – the sorcerer had not harmed any of them. Had provided food and water, and returned to converse, and offer this strange plea.

One which Arthur was _considering_. Genuinely, Leon saw, watching his king stare at the ground, not just for show as a way of gaining Alator's trust, and their release.

"If Emrys comes for an audience," Arthur said finally, "I will grant him safe passage through the kingdom the once, as long as he offers no harm, and hear him out. This I swear as king of Camelot. Are you satisfied with that? Will you lift your curse from my servant and let us depart this place?"

"It is ironic," Alator said, "that you agree to meet with Emrys for your servant's sake."

"And why is that?" the king said, sounding mildly exasperated.

"Because the only curse on your servant is one which is inherent to this place, and none of my making." Alator gestured to indicate – as Leon understood – the chamber, but also the mine entire. "I carry my magic with me in this staff, but Emrys _is_ magic. And in this place, is cut off from its source."

Gwaine exclaimed, initially derisively, "What does that have to do with Merl…"

Leon swallowed hard. Arthur's shoulders were stiff with tension. Was Alator actually claiming –

"That's – not possible," the king said, soft and desperate. "You –"

The sorcerer moved, around the corner of the cell toward the rock wall, just outside the timbers where Merlin lay. Leon thought for a moment that Gwaine was going to lunge across Merlin's body – still curled and unmoving – to snatch their captor through the bars and make some threats or demands of his own.

Counterproductive, of course, the sorcerer was safe as long as they were trapped, and Gwaine had to realize that – but sometimes his temper overtook his intellect.

Arthur held up his free hand to signal the knights – _hold_ – and gave Alator a warning command, "Do not touch him."

The sorcerer inclined his head in acquiescence, and lowered himself to his knees on the ground, gripping and using the staff in such a way as to remind them, he wasn't a young man. It made Leon wonder what he'd seen and experienced, over the years of Uther's Purge.

"Emrys," Alator called to Merlin.

A moment of breathless expectant silence. Leon noticed Arthur's free hand was clenched in a fist at his side.

"Emrys," Alator said again, his inflection this time insistent and authoritative.

And Merlin answered, clearly enough. Slightly petulant, like a child awoken from sleep.

"What?"


	5. Stay (3)

**Stay** , part 3

The darkness was very deep, and velvet soft. It beckoned, and Merlin had to resist, because… because… Promised Arthur he wouldn't leave.

Slow, everything seemed slow – time, and the rhythmic constriction-and-release of his heart. The sluggish movement of his body turned inside out, poisoned. Tainted. He couldn't move, but the sensation of movement wouldn't _stop_. His whole being was seeking something that didn't exist.

An impossible swoop, down and to his right. A vicious spin, straight down – reversed almost immediately to stretch his spine and split his intestines and – then a twist. His upper half one way and his legs the other and –

 _Emrys_ , someone said.

Oh, for the love of… Camelot. Not this. Not now.

"Emrys."

The voice provided a point of reference. A focus that was part of him, but outside of him, at once. The name that represented more than just friendship, or service, or protection. It was duty, and destiny – and he couldn't _not_ answer.

"What?" he mumbled.

"Emrys. Do you know where you are?"

That was easy. In the darkness.

"Hell."

For another moment, he thought he was going to be left alone again. No such luck…

"And why are you in hell, Emrys?"

"I failed," he said. A bit annoyed that someone was interrupting sheer unchanging unending agony to bother him with the obvious.

"In what way?"

The only way that mattered. "Arthur. Hates magic. My fault."

" _Why is it_ your _fault_?" A very different voice, and one that started the spinning again, and he moaned.

"I killed his… father."

For a moment, blessed horrible silent solitary darkness again.

Then the first voice again, oddly swift as if it didn't address him, initially. "No, don't! Just wait – one – moment… Emrys. You hated Uther so much, you finally saw the chance you'd been waiting for? And took it, and killed him?"

Merlin dragged his eyelids up. Glimpsed a partially-obscured bald pate, a pair of glittering eyes. Sideways to him, which turned his stomach uncomfortably.

"No," he whispered. "No, I couldn't. I wouldn't. Not Arthur's father… you don't understand."

"Then what?"

 _If I tell you, will you leave me alone to keep dying in peace?_

He said, "Tried to heal him. _Tried_. No good at healing, usually, but – thought it was _working_ … til it didn't. Oh, Arthur was…" He couldn't find the word for what he wanted. What was furious and heartbroken, together? " 'N I failed, and he hates magic…"

"If you could escape this hell by telling your king your secret, confessing your actions and motivations, would you do it? Emrys?"

He blinked, and wanted to spiral back into darkness. His eyes ached to focus, and couldn't, the way the world was looping and retreating, coiling up and springing away. "No."

The face seemed to come nearer to his own. "Whyever not?"

"He's not ready. 'M not… ready. We're not…"

"What if I told you…" The face withdrew, but the whisper intensified insidiously, crawling around the inside of Merlin's skull, dulling his ears. "You're not alone in this hell. Your king is here also, and several of the knights. Your friends, I believe."

Merlin tried his best to pull himself together, but… no part of his body responded. And there was no magic. There was only one thing to do.

"If I confess," he said thickly, trying to see the other speaker – the bars of hell were wide and red, the spaces between orange-light, hot and blurry and everything was _moving_. "You will let him go? Arthur?"

"Yes."

He tried to swallow, but it hurt and he almost choked before his throat peeled open again. "And the knights? Them as well?"

"I swear upon my love for Albion, and magic itself. Roll to your back if you can – your king is just there."

Everything was moving, and he couldn't. It took an eternity and all his strength to turn his head away from the hard ground beneath his cheek and for a moment reality was tall shadows, a forest of legs and faces like distant stars.

Then, there was Arthur, torchlight making a halo-glow in his golden hair. Merlin recognized him, but couldn't determine his expression in the untrustworthiness of his own eyes.

"Arthur," he said. Desperately. "Arthur – you hear me?"

"I do."

His ears were filling with water or rushing air again – he couldn't hear the tone, the all-important tone. Or maybe that was inconsequential after all.

"I have magic," he gasp-whispered. "I'm a sorcerer. All my life… I use it for you. You needed me and I saved you again and again, and you saved me too… Forgive me please forgive me…"

His stomach was clenching and his throat was closing again and this time he'd be turned inside out. He swallowed and held his breath and arched against the terrifying, agonizing sensation, because he had to know if they walked free, he had to _see_ Arthur escape this hell. He had to keep one promise before he died…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The moment seemed frozen in time and eternity, to Leon. Hearing the suspicion confirmed still didn't make it seem real.

 _Why didn't we_ see _._

 _We saw plenty – invincible creatures, murderous magic-users, curses and undead warriors – why didn't we see_ him _?_

 _Because he was behind us. Behind our lines. Not screaming toward us in attack – but hidden to remain part of our defense. This skinny, clumsy – loyal, clever – servant._

 _Writhing in the dirt in pain and humiliation, begging for forgiveness while we stand around and –_

"You are welcome to leave him in my care. Be assured he will live and recover fully." Before Leon – or anyone else, he thought - had time to absorb the words, Alator moved, leveling his staff like a knight with a lance in the lists.

Leon had a single second for every nerve to seize, every muscle to tense, and a bar of blue-yellow light sprang out of the twisted-thick head of the staff. The other three ducked away, raising an arm to protect their faces – and two of the timbers in that corner _exploded_. Outward, lucky them. And Gwaine was moving before Leon dropped his own arm, through the gap and drawing his sword as he went.

"Drop the staff," he demanded of the sorcerer, "drop it, or I run you through."

Alator dropped it, unperturbed. As Leon began turning back to Arthur – _what are your orders, sire_ – Percival moved into the cell-space vacated by Gwaine. Kneeling at Merlin's side as the younger man clung to the ground and blinked wildly – languidly, uncomprehendingly – up at them.

" _Percival_ ," Arthur said.

And Leon couldn't tell whether it was a don't-do-that warning, or the beginning of an order cut off because it was already being obeyed.

Percival didn't immediately respond, reaching one big hand behind Merlin's neck, lifting his upper body gentle as a mother before scooping his other arm under both of Merlin's – who whimpered, and failed to hold his own head upright. Percival paused to look up at Arthur.

"He belongs with us. You know it, sire, you felt it when we were going to the Isle and he was touched by the dorocha. We all missed him. He _belongs_ with us."

Maybe even, they couldn't lose him like they'd lost Lancelot. Whose absence Percival probably had felt the most.

He was big enough that when he gathered Merlin's legs together at the knee, it was not unlike a parent lifting a slumbering child to carry to bed. The muscles of Percival's arms bulged, and Merlin dangled like he had that morning in the ruins, almost four months ago, semi-conscious. When he should have been dead – and magically wasn't – and went to the Isle with them after all. Fully restored. But the look on Arthur's face wasn't surprised relief, as it had been when Lancelot returned with his servant, apparently none the worse for wear.

It was more like his expression two weeks ago, when Agravaine had returned with a scrap of the servant's distinctive clothing, claiming it for proof that the young man was dead…

"Yes," Arthur said finally, looking in Percival's face, rather than at Merlin unconscious in his arms. He drew himself up _almost_ imperceptibly, looking at both Leon and Elyan also. "Yes, he stays with us."

Arthur moved for the gap at the opposite end of the cell; Leon nodded for Percival to follow, and Elyan shifted as if anticipating helping the biggest knight maneuver his burden to freedom. Gwaine had Alator's staff in his off hand, and silently prodded the bald sorcerer toward Arthur, and the tunnel which presumably led out of the mine-caves. Leon paused to scoop up Merlin's discarded jacket and kerchief.

"A word of warning, Highness," the sorcerer said, seemingly unperturbed at the reversal of their positions. "He's going to get worse before he gets better."

Arthur twisted to look at Merlin, but his expression didn't change. "Show us the way out, if you please."

Gwaine's sword unacknowledged at his back, Alator made another little bow, before reclaiming both torches. And as they started up the tunnel, Leon wondered if Arthur's offer for banishment if Alator restored Merlin, still held. And what the offer might be for Merlin himself.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

 _Emrys. Can you hear me?_

They were passing beyond the iron web of the mines, back up to fresh air and starlight and _magic_ ; even without his staff, Alator could feel it once again.

Behind him, low and almost lost in the shuffle and tramp of the others, the young sorcerer moaned. Alator increased his pace, hoping to get clear of the cave system before it got really bad, for Emrys' sake. He wasn't yet to the point of acknowledging Alator's wordless query.

"How well do you know Lord Agravaine?" the king said in a conversational tone. Beside him where the tunnel admitted for two abreast, dropping back when it narrowed.

"Not at all," Alator returned, intuiting the reason for the question. "I could not guess at his motivation for betrayal, I regret to say. And if you cannot, then you will never know."

"Why is that?"

Another moan, and a hissed breath indrawn between clenched teeth; Arthur Pendragon turned absently as he walked as if to check the suffering sorcerer.

"The reason I was delayed returning to you," Alator told him. "Agravaine informed Morgana of your presence here, and we caught her coming to claim her prize. You – Emrys – both. It took considerable time and energy in persuading her, it was not worth her while…" Morgana was not very controlled, and the old warrior in Alator, though not as strong - nor as ruthless, oddly enough - had finally succeeded in effecting her retreat, without irreparable damage to himself. "When I was able to return, I discovered that Agravaine had come back here also – sent by Morgana, or on his own initiative. Lireht… lost his life in preventing Agravaine from finding you helpless."

"Helpless," the dark-haired knight behind Alator snorted, shoving the tip of his blade a little harder into Alator's ribs. "Hardly."

"Lireht," the king said. "Your – bodyguard?"

"My friend," Alator corrected softly, with a pang of loss and anticipation of loneliness. "Taken by a knife in the back. But he managed to take his killer with him." To hell or to Avalon, only the gods knew, and their decision would be well-weighed and entirely just.

"Wait – who do you mean, his killer?" The king stopped, ten paces short of outside air, the slate-hard vale of Kemeray and velvet-blue night.

"Agravaine," Alator said. "He is dead as well, at Lireht's hand. It should not bring you any sorrow or surprise that a traitor's treachery brought its own recompense."

The king's head and shoulders bowed in some emotion Alator couldn't read; he put out his hand to steady himself on the rock wall of the tunnel. In the silence, the scuffle of the biggest knight carrying the youngest and lightest of the group was more pronounced – and the groan was unmistakable.

"Hells… Arthur, he's –"

"Look out, I'm not going to be able to hold him-"

Alator was shoved to the side of the tunnel as all but one of the knights passed him in a rush, carrying the young king with them, out to the open night air – and Emrys was no longer limp and insensible, but beginning to flail.

"Here, set him here –"

"Watch his head, it's rocky –"

Alator lifted the torch to increase the reach of its light, but studied Arthur Pendragon, one arm tied to his chest like it had been injured, the other hand gripping his belt as if missing his sword. It was with their horses, and Alator would return the weapon with the mounts later, but for one second he watched the prophesied king watch the hope of magic kick and thrash on the ground. In a moment, Alator knew, there would be screams.

"What did you do to him?" the dark-haired knight growled in frustration, shoving Alator forward again with his fist clenched around the hilt of his sword.

"I left him too long in that place," Alator said regretfully.

"Well, do something _for_ him now!"

The king heard his knight's exclamation, the others as well, by the way they looked up. Three knelt around the young sorcerer, gently holding him in place against his inclination to batter himself involuntarily against the rocky ground.

A low, guttural moan. "Oh, please just… kill me. Please can't you just… make it _stop_. Kill me… _end this_ …"

Regret made Alator cringe, and he recognized a similar reaction passing over Arthur Pendragon's face.

" _Can_ you do anything for him?" the king asked in a low voice.

And that was what Alator wanted to see. Concern – not for a sorcerer or prisoner, but for a friend. Emotion such as Uther was rumored to lack entirely. He said, "I can attempt to lessen his perception of the pain."

"Do it, then." The king stepped back to allow him space.

Alator handed the torch to the already-burdened dark-haired knight, who growled in dissatisfaction. He knelt and braced himself to enter Emrys' mind as he'd entered Gaius' – this time for healing, rather than torture.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Leon wished there was firewood to gather. Details of camp to arrange, for it was too dark to think of a journey back to Camelot – if Merlin could even manage such a thing. Sleep was impossible, and waiting unbearable.

He was glad – and aware of the irony – for Alator's presence. A couple of truly hair-raising screams had ripped a cruel and jagged freedom from Merlin's corded throat – his head tipped back and fingers clawing unseeing at those around him, heels gouging the dirt. Since Alator had begun his mumbling, however, Merlin had seemed to relax. They'd gotten him to swallow some water, and keep it down.

Gwaine was with them, now. Elyan held Merlin's head and Percival crouched a few watchful paces away.

And Leon had finally persuaded Arthur to sit, on a low rock a short distance from the others. He wasn't sure whether _he'll be all right_ was a proper comfort or not, but silent support was what Leon did best. If Arthur wanted to talk, he'd –

"Alator told me, Agravaine is dead," the king said in a low voice. Eyes riveted to the sufferer and his attendants – two knights and a sorcerer. Another sorcerer.

"I am very sorry, sire," Leon said, "for your loss."

"So I don't suppose it matters, anymore," Arthur went on, as if he hadn't heard the condolences, "whether he was the traitor, or not. Gaius _wasn't_ …"

Except for knowingly harboring a sorcerer. Who'd evidently defended Arthur and Camelot on numerous occasions.

"And I am meant to believe," the king said conversationally, turning his head to meet Leon's eyes, "that if Merlin had obeyed the law, I would have died a long time ago."

"I would have said as much," Leon answered, careful but honest, " _before_ we knew of his magic."

Arthur grunted. "I can't stop _thinking_ , Leon… Hells, I wish I could stop thinking."

Leon murmured agreement. It was a lot to take in; they'd known Merlin for years, after all. They thought they'd known Merlin – but not all.

"Am I supposed to repeal the ban as a thank-you?" the king said abruptly, leaning on his good elbow on his knee. "To avoid arresting and trying someone who… I don't think deserves it, really – but that's favoritism, not justice, and I can't… Am I supposed to banish him, too? Or just… forgive him?"

His tone on that word _forgive_ made Leon think, Arthur wasn't sure he could. Especially with Merlin's involvement in Uther's death still unclear – _I killed_ had carried as much agony and truth as _tried to heal him_. Agravaine would have pushed for Merlin's execution, Leon had no doubt – in spite of this new information that Arthur's uncle had allied with a lady with magic. Lord Agravaine was like Uther that way; he'd never liked Merlin or approved of Arthur's confidence in him. He couldn't see past cheeky-servant, to the worth of what Merlin provided for the king in addition to his physical service.

"Then don't do it for him," Leon suggested. " _Officially_ , I mean. Do as Alator said, that you were willing to do – meet with _Emrys_ and hear him out. And if changing the law is the right thing to do, then…"

"Consequences be damned," Arthur mused. And after a moment, "But how can I meet with Emrys, when he's Merlin? How can I look at my manservant and see magic?"

"He's still the same person," Leon said softly. The same boy who'd risked insulting the heir to the throne, pointing out faults that should be corrected in a leader of men. Who'd been irreverent and defiant – and cheerful at times when all other hope had slipped away.

"That's what I mean." Arthur gave him a twisted-wry grin, and Leon nodded.

Arthur taking Merlin seriously about his expertise in anything. Merlin poking fun at a king he loved – who now had a responsibility before the law to see him dead. Awkward at best, and for how long? It was going to be difficult for both of them to find new footing for their relationship, if it was to last.

Leon hoped it did. Whether Arthur acknowledged it or not – whether Arthur _knew_ it or not – he needed Merlin. Maybe they all did.

Their attention was drawn back to the little group when Alator pushed to his feet, and turned to face them. Leon took Arthur's elbow to aid him in rising, and as the bald sorcerer approached, Elyan and Gwaine occupied themselves raising Merlin's head and shoulders with a smooth pillow-size rock padded by his jacket.

"How is he?" Arthur asked the sorcerer, who looked exhausted, himself.

"Recovered. But his physical energy is depleted, and young men can be emotional… I've spoken to him," Alator said, giving a nod to the figure on the ground. "Emrys was less inclined to forgive me your broken collarbone than his own ordeal, but we've come to an understanding."

"And what is that?" Arthur challenged him.

"He has my undying loyalty. He knows he can call upon me for anything, and I will give my life in seeing it performed."

Leon's eyebrows lifted of their own accord. An astonishing oath, given so quickly under such circumstances – and the underlying honor, in both offer and acceptance. It occurred to him, though, that he could easily hear Merlin say the same words of Arthur.

Not when it came to mundane chores, but the moments when it really mattered – imminent danger, doubted destiny…

"Your sword is with your horses, concealed a hundred paces northeast of here," the older man continued. "As is the body of Lord Agravaine. I estimate that Morgana will return to full strength within a week's time. Gaius should need a couple of days, since his age is somewhat against him in recovering strength and vitality."

Another thing. Gaius was very old – and Leon was sure he wasn't the only one who'd assumed the black-haired boy on the ground would be the physician's successor.

"And Merlin?" the king said.

"I rather think he will be stronger than before, come morning," Alator said. "Much depends on you, Your Highness."

"On me?" Arthur said, but Leon suspected he knew Alator's meaning.

"He was ready to keep suffering the effects of the iron mine, rather than say the words that might turn you against him, and make him your enemy," Alator said. "Perhaps that is just what you consider him, and you care nothing for dashing his hopes and dreams to pieces. But the next step in your shared destiny is up to you to take, Arthur Pendragon."

"And what am I to do with you?" the king said to the older man directly. "Banishment, effective immediately?"

"I would like to bring Lireht back to our people for funeral rites, and I am willing to bring Emrys on our journey out of Camelot as well. If he stays, I will not return unless you call for me, or he does."

Arthur's jaw clenched as he stared toward Merlin, half-hidden behind Gwaine seated on the ground. Leon wondered if he dared repeat Percival's words in the cell…

 _He belongs with us._

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….

Magic flooded Merlin's being, and it was excruciating.

A brilliant light that blinded and burned his eyes, a fire that shot through his veins like lightning, taking sharp and abrupt corners where there should have been smooth turns. It was not unlike the pins-and-needles sensation of returning blood-flow and feeling to a limb gone numb with sitting or lying too long in the wrong position.

It was ridiculous – he felt like laughing – it _hurt_. He wanted it to keep going – he wanted it to end.

After a time, and a whisper of someone else's calming magic – the intensity diminished, making way for other sensory input. He lay on the ground; it was hard and rocky but not unbearable in his weariness. It was dark, night, cool. They were free; he heard his friends' voices and the tones reassured him there was no imminent threat. He might be hungry quite soon.

And he'd told Arthur he had magic.

Merlin's eyes flew open at the memory and realization and his body tried to inhale a panicked gasp – but he was too tired for more than a swifter-than-normal filling of his lungs.

Gwaine leaned over him, exhaustion showing in dark eyes and half-energy smile. "You're back with us," he said. "How do you feel?"

"I don't know," Merlin said unsteadily. "Like I've been attacked by an army of hedgehogs?"

The grin brightened several degrees. "Don't you ever change, Merlin. Not for any man. Not even for –"

"Gwaine." That was Arthur, standing near his feet; when Gwaine turned Merlin could see him.

Merlin's body tried to sit up straight, but his chest and abdominal muscles protested emphatically. Dimly and disgustedly he remembered repeated vomiting, and he couldn't make it, thudding back onto the rock behind him.

Arthur's expression was lost in the gaunt shadows thrown across his face by the uncertain torchlight, the gleam of his hair dimmed by sweat and dust, Merlin's belt still holding his arm motionless against the pain of a cracked collarbone. Tone deliberately even, not quite command, not quite request as he spoke to the knight nearest Merlin. "Give us a minute."

Gwaine looked at the king for a moment, before slapping his hands on his knees and pushing to his feet. He told Merlin, "I won't be far."

"Go with Percival and Alator to get the horses," Arthur told Gwaine. "The sorcerer doesn't wish to linger here; he'll be on his way tonight with his friend. And I want to leave for Camelot at first light." His eyes flickered to Merlin for the briefest of moments. "Or as soon as we can."

Merlin's breathing quickened involuntarily.

"Leon can go," Gwaine said. Almost a suggestion, not quite defiance. "Or Elyan?"

Arthur held Gwaine's gaze a moment. Then nodded – acquiescence to Gwaine's request, command to someone behind Merlin's field of vision.

Gwaine smiled down on Merlin. "Then, I won't be far."

Merlin rubbed his head on the rock behind him, nodding; he was suddenly too dry-mouthed to attempt speech. He watched Arthur watch the knights leave, and wondered what Alator had said to the king – who was letting the older sorcerer go! – and then Arthur's attention was back on him.

He blurted, "Does your shoulder hurt much? If they bring the horses, I've some willow bark in my saddlebags that can help with –"

One last spasm. A flash of bright pain re-aligning his spine and all his joints exploded from fingers and toes and hair and left him gasping weakly, filled to the brim of whatever immaterial reservoir held his magic inside of him.

Someone's hand on the front of his shoulder, holding him steady against an instinctual curling down to the ground. He gripped the muscled forearm and blinked to see Arthur kneeling beside him, worry like he'd rarely seen for _him_ darkening his king's eyes, and he couldn't fathom _why_.

"That's so – incomprehensible," Arthur said. He didn't remove his hand. "That being _without_ magic would do… _that_ , to you."

"Sorry?" Merlin tried. "I do feel a little better, out here."

"You have," Arthur said slowly, "a lot to answer for. And that's only the things that have occurred to me just now, looking back and knowing your… your magic."

He nodded again, fast and desperate, because honestly, he'd passed beyond hoping to keep Arthur's regard after this moment and this revelation, after the events of Uther's death. "I swear to you, nothing but truth, even if it hurts, even if you don't like it. Let me prove myself to you, let me –"

"Stay?" Arthur suggested, with a twist of a mocking smile. "I'm surprised you still want to."

"Camelot is my home," Merlin said wonderingly. "You are my king."

 _You_ are my king.

Arthur scanned his eyes – for what, he wasn't quite sure – and Merlin let him. Then the king relaxed back in his sitting posture. "Adjustments will have to be made, but… the knights seem to think you belong with us."

Merlin almost choked, trying to hold his sob of overwhelming relief inside his chest. He rather wished they hadn't done this, while he felt so sick and weak that emotion spilled out of him involuntarily, but. "Change is good. If it's done for the right reasons." _Staying_ was even better.

"Try and rest," Arthur told him, giving a little squeeze-shake before removing his hand. Merlin's shoulder stayed warm all the way to his heart. "The new day will be here before you know it."

 **A/N: Made use of a concept that is common to the genre, if not this series specifically – the idea that iron blocks or disrupts the supernatural. And a concept that lives in fanfiction – the idea that Merlin without magic, suffers physically. Neither of which I normally hold… but for the sake of this fic, I've used. Hope you've enjoyed!**


	6. Who Owns Magic (1)

**A/N: This one I think I should put a warning on, for violence and non-con m/m (not explicit, though – fairly vague, and as inoffensive as I could make it). And mostly it's only this chapter, out of the three comprising this story. I've put a (*) by the section containing that mention.**

 **Also, this begins in the gap between seasons 4 and 5, and contains sections with a somewhat unconventional style. Hope you enjoy!**

 **Who Owns Magic**

 _In the first year of King Arthur of Camelot (of Brytannea) a very ordinary, very innocuous young man was reported missing from the border town of Ealdor. So ordinary and innocuous that his name was never recorded, though experts cite Merlin's excellent memory and inclination toward the personal touch as proof for the theory that Merlin must have said it when he requested time off to answer the letter-for-help, written by his mother Hunith, in person._

 _These same experts cite the generally-accepted temperament of the king in claiming that he would have responded with teasing his manservant about time off in general, and insulted his ability to track, much less find, much much less rescue, said missing boy, before relenting to allow the benevolent mission._

 _It should be remembered that this territory was still contested at this point in time, following Cenred's death. The assumption that one man in peasant's clothing could do a lot more than a 'dozen red-cloaked bandit-targets', according to the council recorder's notes, is acceptably-supported as well as memorable._

 _Merlin was supposed to have been gone for a month. One month, if not before. At the very latest, he'd be sure to send a message requesting more time._

 _Records show that one month and one week later, Sir Gwaine was released from regular duty._

 _Records also show that two months later, Sirs Percival and Elyan were also released from regular duty. And that, six months after that, they returned to join the ranks of their fellow knights. Sir Gwaine remained on royal assignment._

 _King Arthur made a second trip to Ealdor, where he was informed him that the young man in question had been discovered living in a neighboring town with his very pregnant young wife. Deeper into Cenred's territory, but by no means against his will. The young man had been confused by questions about Merlin – evidently he had not even seen him._

* * *

Merlin is taken by surprise.

It's happened before, often enough. Arthur thinks he has a tendency to be naïve. Merlin trusts that giving people the benefit of the doubt is the right thing. And so he'll probably be taken by surprise again in the future.

Or maybe not ever again.

This time, as he's preparing camp, setting the wood for a small fire. And no mount to whicker or stamp nervously or swivel its ears in warning, because he told Arthur a horse would only draw the wrong attention, where he was going.

The attention of a bandit with a cudgel, say.

The involvement of a club is unexpected, while his brain is still occupied with the snapping sound of a tiny twig underfoot at some distance. The blow is hard and fast, and unconsciousness instantaneous.

Maybe it fractures his skull. Maybe it damages the brain underneath.

When he comes to, his vision is blurry. He feels sick to his stomach, and disjointed. Flickering, wavering fires-light – no daylight – he's underground, surrounded by stone. No – just the hand-hewn stone of a castle or watchtower or… tomb. Or something.

He can't move properly, and finds his wrists at least bound with twine in front of him. He cannot push himself upward to sitting, though he tries, there simply is no balance. The world whirls.

And he succumbs to the darkness.

When he wakes again, it is to a shocking splash of cold water, a figure looming in the blurry dim, and a voice that literally hurts his ears. He cringes, trying to understand without listening.

Enough words carry meaning deeply enough for him to realize what he already knew. He is captive to the whim of this man, who says more than once, _I am your owner now_. Initially it comforts him that no one mentions Arthur. No one knows who he is. No one will torture him to demand information he cannot give. He need only wait, for…

Slavery is a confused suggestion in the back of his mind. If it isn't to be interrogation.

Clarity returns in increments, hindered by sudden and overwhelming headaches – from which he always returns to awareness cringing in a corner and whimpering. The mere thought of magic sends him hurtling into the darkness again, and the climb back is long and hard. So he decides not to think about magic for a while. Only if he's dying anyway, maybe.

He finds food on the stone floor when he gets to hands and knees to hitch himself around in exploring his prison. Not on a plate, but scattered bits and pieces. Crumbs and chunks of hard stale bread, moldy on the bottom where they've lain on the damp filthy stone of the floor, bones with scraps of meat dried to them. He finds he's hungry enough to risk the mold, and gnaw the bones.

The only water he gets is tossed over him, once in a while. He has to be ready for it, catch it in his hands, suck it from his clothing – lick it off the floor, if he doesn't want to die.

And he doesn't want to die. He wants to escape.

The headaches clear a bit, and he finds the walls of his cell are wooden planks, solid but ill-fitting, and arrayed in a circle around him, with space – his fingers tell him – for a door. He works himself to his feet and finds this wall chest-high – but narrow. With his feet tied together – his boots are gone and his socks and his shirt – he doesn't have the purchase or the strength to get himself over, even by jumping.

Trying to hurl himself over the wall causes more headaches, and the dim space beyond the wall blurs as he slides to the floor.

Light is brought.

And along with it, loud, coarse laughter that makes him cringe involuntarily. Men fill the space around him, shouting and jeering til the words blend together and their eyes gleam and roll maniacally and their faces and hair sweat and Merlin reaches for his magic, though it is far and dim. A struggle, like reaching into a fish-trap (he remembers from his peasant childhood) – easy enough to reach _in_ , nearly impossible to draw _out_.

One man enters his circular wooden cell, a fat man with rotten teeth and no hair on his head, clad in leather breeches and bracers, and carrying a knife. Merlin struggles when the man reaches him, but he only cuts the twine at his wrists and ankles.

Merlin drags himself to his feet, rubbing the bruised, chafed flesh and watching the fat man and all the others jostling each other in rows around his ring. His head hurts, but he warily plans for surreptitious magic – it might be best to try when he is alone, especially if it doesn't work, or immediately, but –

What are they doing, now?

The crowd stills a moment, all attention on a man with sleek dark hair down to his shoulders, and too many teeth showing between dark beard and mustache. He speaks of rules and odds – and Merlin recognizes his voice for the Owner – and it seems Merlin is to fight the fat man.

He is tremblingly nervous – he knows exactly what he's not capable of – but fairly sure he can evade and trick and outlast. He remembers a certain man named Jarl, Arthur taking his place to fight Gwaine, and a sudden fire that puts an end to everything but freedom and his own secrets.

The man who calls himself the Owner finishes with a flourish, and the crowd roars. The fat man gathers himself eagerly, bunching meaty fists and plowing forward to plant them in Merlin's face or body.

He ducks, though it makes the world spin briefly, and aims magic at the fat man's feet, intending to trip him up as he lunges forward with his target abruptly missing. Maybe the fat man will knock himself out, hitting his head on the wooden walls.

But the magic.

Whooshes right out of Merlin in a rush – curving away from the fat man, back toward the surprised Owner. (Water through the sharpened reeds of the fish-trap.)

Who is holding a strange rod negligently in his hands. Stone-ivory-bone, wrapped with wire of an uncertain metal, copper-silver-gold, in an intricate pattern. It glows briefly of blue, then gold –

And the silence is deafening. The Owner looks at Merlin in _realization_ , and Merlin panics.

Tries to snatch the rod, push back the fat man and the Owner, flare the torches at the back and top of the wall, drop the candelabra suspended over his cell, any-damn- _some_ thing –

The rod glows, and Merlin's magic vanishes. (Oil on water.)

The Owner laughs in disbelief.

 _Magic_ , he says, and the word is echoed through the chamber, through Merlin's blood thundering frantically around his veins. Everyone chants, over and over, _Magic_.

The Owner cackles in unrestrained glee.

And the fat man's fist slams into the side of Merlin's face, so hard he tumbles down to the floor and to darkness, not even thinking to put out his hands to stop himself.

He awakens to the slosh of water, scrambling for every drop that lingers within reach, til he realizes he's not alone. The Owner crouches next to him, with too many teeth and that strange rod.

 _I can't use magic_ , the Owner explains, delighted to do so. _And this, can't store it. Just gathers any used in its vicinity, channeling it back to the earth._

Merlin's magic bursts out of him almost unintentionally, attacking the man, screaming for freedom – and disappears into the cool unconcerned glow of the rod.

The Owner is no longer delighted. Even a fool would realize what Merlin just tried, and the Owner is, tragically, not a fool. _Let's play a new game_ , he suggests. _Let's see if a person can expend all their magic – or whether it comes back, like energy or health._

Merlin tells him to go to hell.

The Owner hits him very hard, with the rod.

He wakens again to a bucketful of water – and a crowd of strange rough men jeering as he tries to get some of it inside his body.

The Owner shows too many teeth, and taps the rod in his fingers suggestively. Merlin claws his way unsteadily to his feet and determines that he will not lose any more magic to the strange artifact – and turns into the fists of a very tall dark-skinned man.

He manages to avoid some of the blows the man throws – he's fast and efficient and brutal; Percival, without hesitation or compassion or morals – but does not manage anything that could be termed self-defense. The dark-skinned man pursues him around the wooden-walled area, fists and boots, on his feet, then on his knees, then Merlin curls into a protective ball, exhausted and confused and humiliated and angry and-

It doesn't stop. The man hangs onto the arena wall – under his grip it shudders against Merlin's bruised back – and boots Merlin again and again and Merlin's sobbing and gagging and pain pain pain pain –

magic.

He feels it leave him in a rush, and the kicking stops and through the throbbing agony he _hopes_ –

But the rod's glow is fading, and the Owner is showing pleased teeth and the crowd is hollering and coin is changing hands. The dark-skinned man heaves his fists into the air and accepts his acclaim, turning in a circle and roaring back at the others, exultant.

Merlin bleeds and aches and passes out.

* * *

"Gaius!"

"Sire. Was… there something you needed?"

"No… yes. No, I just wanted to… remind you of the council meeting, this afternoon."

"I was not aware that I'd missed any in the past… but thank you, my lord, for thinking of an old man's failing memory. It's a good thing I don't have a job where I'd need… Is there something I can help you find, sire?"

"Hm? No, no, just…"

"He's not back yet, Arthur. You know I'd send word – he'd come himself to tell you."

"To brag on his success finding one lost farmer. And staying out of trouble in the meantime… Gaius, do you think he's in trouble? I know he said a month, but… It's almost five weeks, now, and no word like he promised."

"Merlin does tend to lose track of time, sire."

"Merlin does tend to keep his promises, Gaius. I've had Gwaine hinting around me all week and Gwen being very pensive, and the others…"

"He is capable of taking care of himself, Arthur –"

"Is he?"

"But if it eases your mind to send someone like Gwaine, at least to Ealdor. Then, by all means."

"Yes. Right. Well, I'll see you at the meeting, then."

"Of course, sire."

* * *

 **(*)**

Merlin dreams of a mouthful of cool liquid sliding down his throat, and wakens to reality. If he's alone, he searches the floor of his cage for food thrown by spectators. Always hoping for more. Sometimes accepting the second time over, what he has already passed by.

If he's not alone, he's beaten til he uses magic, or passes out. He has a vague idea that they're betting on how long it takes. Maybe how many blows. Sometimes he gets in a swing or two, before going down.

They don't give him enough time to recover. The constant light is dim, but he can tell there are layers of bruising. When his ribs are broken badly enough for the ends to grind together, a scared silent girl appears to bind them up; the water continues – never enough – but he's ravenous and half-crazed with hunger by the time there's another match, and more food thrown.

He's kicked in the belly as he's trying to stuff crumbs in his mouth, and vomits in reaction. In fury and desperation he tries to stab his opponent with a sharp piece of bone – the Owner nods and Merlin's hand is deliberately broken, stomped several times, til he blacks out still screaming.

The pain wakes him before the water, that time. He manages to tear shreds off the ragged bottoms of his trousers to wrap around the mess of his hand like new skin. He doesn't really examine why he does this – hope that he'll need the use of his fingers, someday?

It occurs to him that he's accepted the impossibility of escape, as he cringes from a new presence in the cell, rather than attempting to face the man. (Are they men, though, really?) He curls and tries to protect his hand, his ribs, his head. He allows himself to be beaten into oblivion. And his last thought is to wonder if anyone is ever going to come for him.

He dreams of Arthur and Gwen at a fantastic feast, the knights toasting so energetically that foam sloshes from their tankards.

He wakes to stray scattered drops and licking the floor where he bleeds and relieves himself, and is never cleaned.

Something won't let him give up. _Destiny_ is a word he still thinks, and wonders why it hasn't worked out, this time, to return him to his king, the reason for the magic that sometimes leaps out of him into his Owner's hand.

But he stops thinking about maintaining any standards, or what his friends will think when they find him. He stops thinking about their hurt, to realize – he stops thinking of his hurt.

It is dark and solitary, with his eyes closed. He exists, and the pain inflicted is distant.

One day he wakens to water being poured more deliberately down his gullet. He gulps – chokes and vomits – gulps some more.

There are voices, and he hears the Owner. Something about a broken toy, and whether whips or blades will rouse him. Someone else's voice disagrees. A rough hand pushes his hair back from his eyes – he cringes in his defensive ball on the floor – the hand holds him still with a grip on his hair and turns his face to the light.

 _The other wing._

 _You really think so?_

 _Well, the other boy is a pathetic scrap of worthlessness, a day from dead and the customers know it. Maybe that will rouse this one to earn his keep._

He's lifted to his feet. It takes some time; he can't remember the last time his soles touched ground to hold his weight, or his legs straightened. His head throbs at every wincing step, and he sees nothing but dirty stone and dirty torchlight. He's taken to a small room, like a supply closet.

There's a narrow bed – why is he being given a bed? – and a table with no chairs. Why is he being given a table with no chairs. There is a bucket in the corner, and a grimy plate with weevilly bread on the table, a dented cup of scummy water.

He has to strip out of his trousers before they'll let him have the meal – how long has it been since he's had a _meal_? – but he barely notices. Maybe they're going to give him clothes, too.

It's cold but not freezing, and with his cramped stomach full of half a cup of water and a fist-sized chunk of bread, he curls onto his bed and falls into a stupor that is better than any unconscious sleep he's gotten for… since…

This time he wakes to someone's hands, not a bucket of water. All over him, deliberate rather than careless but it's immediately worse than fists and boots and he fights.

This man isn't stripped and oiled and muscular – in the light of the new torch on the wall his clothing looks neither peasant nor mercenary. Still, Merlin is weak and his flailings seem to excite the man, who slaps his broken hand.

And in the helpless spark-shower of pain, he slams Merlin's head down on the table – how did he get from the bed to the –

He's almost unconscious enough not to feel what the man begins to do. Almost. He's almost strong enough, then, to free himself, to throw off his... attacker…

Almost. And he almost doesn't remember the humiliating conclusion of the man's gratification.

Was he a man, though, really.

Or just an animal.

Merlin knows he prefers the violence of his previous cell, and stays curled under the table when they bring him another plate and cup.

He flinches when someone crouches down next to him, and the Owner shows all his teeth. _Is the magic gone, then?_ he asks, moving Merlin's hair with the rod so he can see him better.

Merlin pulls back. The hair in his eyes seems protective and safe, somehow, a veil to hide his soul behind.

He hugs his knees and hears himself keening, pleading – with what? with whom? no one hears and no one cares – and doesn't feel like himself. Not a man, if men can do these things to each other. Not human, anymore. Not magic. He hasn't thought of rescue in a long time.

He loses count of how many times the padlock on the outside of the door clicks open and a torch is placed in a bracket on the wall, and someone enters. And someone enters.

It never changes anything, his desperate attempts at self-defense. Only delays, and strengthens the monsters who dissect him, body and soul, with such filthy glee. Sometimes someone enters to wash his body, shave his face, and it's not as humiliating. Sometimes he thinks about turning too quickly when they hold his chin and scrape his jaw, in hopes that he'll kill himself on the blade – but he doesn't.

Once he feels hands, and realizes he didn't even hear the door.

Once he wakes, facedown on the bed and listening to the rustle of clothing re-adjusted, and realizes he never tensed a single muscle in resistance.

He feels sick of himself, and loses all interest in the plate and cup.

The Owner is there, and talking and talking but all the words buzz in his ears and he ignores the meaning. There is more significance and comfort in the furniture because they don't feel what happens on them, it doesn't concern them. If they're marked or scarred or damaged, it doesn't _hurt_. They exist, not waiting for anything particularly, and he has taken his lesson from them.

His arms are gripped and he is lifted to his feet and held in place. He keeps his eyes on the floor to maintain the barrier of his imperviousness. (That is a very big word for a thing like him to remember.)

 _He doesn't look too bad. We could clean him up, dress him up, sell him as a slave in one of the southern markets._

 _If anyone would buy him. No, I don't believe I want to bother. I don't want to give up one of my toys if someone else can get any use out of him, anymore. Dump him on the midden heap._

 _Yes, master. Shall I kill him first?_

 _Don't bother with that, either. If he crawls off to die in the woods… so much the better. It'll spare us his stench, at least._

Two hands are iron bars around his arms, and the world is the ground a step ahead of his filthy cracked feet dragging along. He had the vague idea he's going back to the wooden-walled cell.

He wakes gradually to a sensation of heat on his skin. And blinks at a blazing torch very far away, behind what appears to be a tattered cloth, moving always moving. A chill of air raises hair along his arms and legs, and he pushes himself up to sitting.

Small, strange noises intrude, repeated softly, but no one comes near him.

He sits so still and so long, he notices grass grows from the dirt on the floor. There are ants, too, and beetles, that take no note of him. He leaves them alone, too.

It smells clean.

The walls are very far away – his head aches to look for them – the columns that hold up the tattered cloth of the ceiling with the blazing torches beyond, are rough and warm and living.

He blinks and remembers. Trees, leaves, grass. He's alone.

What does that mean? But it's good. Without knowing why – without thinking that he does not know why – he turns and gets his knees under him, then his feet. He moves one in front of him, then the other.

His feet are unsteady, and his head bobbles on his neck. It has been so long since most of him did not throb with pain, that it does not occur to him that he hurts all over.

He finds berries and eats them. He discovers nuts underfoot, and when he stops to smash them open between two stones, he finds more and eats them all.

There is a trickle of water, and his legs give out at the sound, so he pulls his body toward it with his arms. He puts his face into it, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat – this is more heaven than he deserves – til he's full, and sleeps.

When he wakes, the innocent trickle of the world's water still wets his lips and part of one hand, and no one else is touching him.

He works his way to his feet again, reluctantly leaving the trickle, though he couldn't have explained why. And he would have avoided anyone who could possibly have posed the question. Instinct, though he doesn't consciously realize it. He moves forward, though he has no direction, and eats when it occurs to him that he's come across something edible. It's been a long time since his thoughts have risen above bare physical sustenance, and so he doesn't notice that they still don't – but always he finds his feet under him, again.

It doesn't rain, but it doesn't occur to him to notice that. There's only the sun through the leaves, and the dark. Larger predators leave him alone, and he doesn't notice; he avoids the occasional two-legged ones successfully by being very slow and very still.

Until one day a hand wakes him again. He is curled at the foot of a tree, and a man crouches above him, his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

His clothing is shiny silver and eye-watering scarlet and his hair catches the sunlight. His eyes are cloudy sky, and his voice is too loud, insistent and scared – avoidance is impossible, so Merlin surrenders without moving a muscle – his words hold too many questions.

 _Where were you what happened are you all right why are you naked Merlin what happened where were you…_

It doesn't matter. He is the tree, the earth, the fallen leaves and scattered sunlight.

Then the man kneels, wriggles his arm into the crook of Merlin's neck where he rests on the ground, head and shoulder, and lifts him.

If Merlin has objections to the shift, they don't matter anyway, and the man's will is easily accomplished. Merlin's arms fall away from his chest and the man is exclaiming and poking at him and he doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand when the man gathers him to his hard metal chest and buries his face in Merlin's shoulder. Or when the man's shoulders shake, or when moisture begins to trickle down his back. It tickles, and it's warm, then cool. The two of them sit this way for a long time.

Finally, when the sun glows across from them, lower than the leaves of the trees, the man shifts back, and Merlin opens his eyes to watch him.

Keeping his arms around Merlin's chest – some of his ribs ache; some of them have been cracked at one time or another – the man rocks back, pulling Merlin's weight with him, pulling him up to his feet.

 _You're stark naked, Merlin, and skinny as a starving sparrow._

The man leads – encourages, guides (strange) – him over the dirt and grass and twigs and stones – step after step til they reach a massive, patient animal, gently nibbling grass and trailing –

Reins, the word comes to Merlin. Horse. Saddled mount.

The man reaches for another length of bright red cloth on the back of the saddle, unfurling it to wrap around Merlin's shoulders.

 _You're lucky I'm alone. The others will be furious, you should hear Gwen complain when I give my manservant the slip – ah, my new… Anyway, we can camp here tonight and be home in the morning._

Home.

 _Or maybe you'd rather sneak in, late tonight. I haven't got any extra clothes we can put on you…_

He registers uncertainty in the man's tone and expression, before remembering to drop his eyes to the ground and become an object again. Discarded… but reclaimed now by a new owner?

He's pressed down to sitting, again – the red cloth rearranged around his body – and the man is busy with the camp. A leather pouch is dropped in his lap, and sloshes.

 _Have something to drink. Go ahead, it's all right, it's only water._

He obeys, and it's warm and leathery. A dream come true. He's given bread, then, that isn't stale or moldy – and he's more surprised than hungry, turning it over in his fingers til he's told to stop playing with his food and eat it. He obeys.

The man kneels before him again, and talks. More questions, though the insistency is muted.

 _Merlin, I need to know what happened. Are you hurt, or… sick. Did they use magic on you._

(Magic, they all chanted, eager for his blood to spill, for his bones to break. Magic-magic-magic-)

 _Okay_ , the man says, disturbed, reaching to wipe Merlin's face roughly. _Never mind, we'll leave that for Gaius if you'd rather. You can take your time – though I really do need to know, what happened to you. We'll find the men who did this, we'll make sure they pay –_

Coins clinking, glittering, changing hands and they're such a ridiculous reason for this to have been done to him.

 _Gwaine has never stopped looking, and I… Merlin, I swear I tried to find you. I tried…_

Something of the man's anguish touches Merlin uncomfortably, it's so unusual to see in someone else. It makes him vaguely uneasy, and he wants to make it stop. He tries to speak, and it's a croak. He clears his throat – and the man focuses on him with an intensity that is almost frightening – and he manages. _It's all right. Don't be…_

Words fail.

But the man's anguish turns to something else. Determination, maybe. _It's not all right, Merlin. It's not. Only you would…_

The golden-haired man pauses, and Merlin remembers to drop his eyes, and not to feel either of their feelings. Feelings are painful. Objects don't have them.

 _Merlin – do you even know who I am?_

Because, he realizes, the man knows what to call him. No one in that place ever knew his name. So this man is from – before?

 _It's Arthur. Merlin… it's Arthur._

Something about the way the man says his name, makes Merlin think he wants him to look up again – so he dares.

Arthur is a dangerous thought. A dead hope. A failed responsibility. (A friend.)

Merlin begins to shake, and can't stop. An anxious look springs onto the man's face as he reaches for him again, and it hurts Merlin and he doesn't understand it and he doesn't want to understand because death is a bliss denied him and dying is an eternity of agony and if he comes to life again like a leaf-bud in spring it will only mean he'll hurt again and it will be possible to die again.

(Yes, he does want to. Understand. And live.)

The world tips and tilts and leaps up to cradle him as he dives willingly into darkness.

He wakes to the feeling of hands on him. He knows he's naked, though there seems to be some sort of cloth draped across his hips. The hands are gentle, though they linger on some of the worst injuries he remembers. There is wet, and rubbing, like… washing?

He opens his eyes and sees that he's indoors. Stone and rafters – dusty golden color, light and clean and he feels a vague embarrassment to be there, like he's not supposed to be in such a place.

 _Gaius, he's awake._

Movement draws his eyes. A girl's face, round with smooth brown skin, haloed with black curls. And she's clean and he knows she smells wonderful, too. She's smiling, though tears run down her face and he's distressed that she's distressed.

He tells her, _You're so beautiful_.

She sobs, _Oh, Merlin_. Leaning down on his chest and gripping him. Hair and tears, and he rocks slightly with her emotion on whatever he's lying on and he allows it.

There's someone else – the person she spoke to. An old man with white hair to his shoulders, stooped under a shapeless blue robe with an embroidered frontispiece. The old man leans over him, scowling ferociously –

But there are tears in his eyes too, and the tracks of others over and between the wrinkles on his face. _My boy_ , he says.

So is this the new owner?

 _How do you feel?_ the old man continues. More questions, just like the other man. _Are you in pain? Can you tell me what happened? And, Merlin – where have you been?_ The girl sits up, trying to compose herself, and the questions repeat silently across her face.

Just like that other man. Arthur.

And he says the name.

 _Arthur. Arthur?_

 _He was here before_ , the girl answers, trying to smile. _He brought you home. Don't you remember? He'll be back soon – Gaius, should I run and get him?_

 _Wait and see if Merlin stays awake._

He lies still and looks at the ceiling and it is the best he's felt in a long time. The dust motes drift and the rays of sunlight stretch lazily and the old man and the girl touch him gently, all over. He realizes distantly that they are doing more than just cleaning him. Sometimes it stings, but he thinks they might be watching him for signs of pain, so he contains any reaction. It isn't difficult.

* * *

"You sent for me, my lord?"

"Gaius. Yes…"

"I assume you wish to ask after the condition of my patient – but I should get back to him if you're not going to –"

"No! No, it's… I'm… Gwen went to sleep, finally, she was crying and trying to tell me…"

"So you sat up waiting for my report, with a pitcher of wine for company. Tsst. That won't help Merlin, Arthur."

"It'll help get the sight of him out of my head, at least! You didn't – Gaius, I might've rode right past him if I hadn't turned my head just at that moment. He was just lying there – I don't know, sleeping. And then when he - He didn't even recognize me!"

"Nor any of us, I don't think. As Gwen was washing his hair, she found… evidence of an old, rather bad blow he'd taken to his head. I believe that explains some memory loss, and change in behavior."

"Some. And the rest? The rest of him? He was naked, Gaius – and Merlin is usually shy as a girl – and I saw… what I saw... Damn it all, I want to forget…"

"Considerable damage to his right hand. I believe we can rebreak some of the bones – carefully, of course – and reset them to give him back some use of that hand. His ribs are healed over – if he wasn't so skinny, it might be more difficult to ascertain the location of previous cracks by the lump of knitted bone. As for the rest…"

(Grunt.) "He's a patchwork of scars and bruises. I've never seen anything like it... What were they doing to him. Even here, the punishments aren't any worse than imprisonment, or a few hours in the stocks. Aside from – y'know – execution, or if the offense is really bad."

"I imagine he was caught by slavers, or some such men. Cenred's land is lawless, now, and we've heard rumors of the far north. And you know Merlin would never accept that, he'd never stop trying to escape and return to us. I only wonder why he…"

"Didn't make better plans, and actually accomplish something sooner?!... I'm sorry, Gaius, I know this isn't his fault. It isn't…"

"It isn't your fault, either."

"No? Feels like it. It feels like I let my skinny, uncoordinated manservant wander off by himself –"

"He asked you to –"

"Into a land where might is right, and Merlin hasn't got any might, to be captured and beaten daily, it looks like, and then leave him there for a year."

"Arthur, you tried to find him –"

"I could've gone myself."

"No, you couldn't, and you know it. Those few trips to Ealdor to speak to Merlin's mother –"

"Weren't enough!"

"Were risky enough as it was, especially if your council or the other kings had gotten wind of it. You are king now, Arthur, and you know that means you can't simply choose to do as you please – or disobey yourself to sneak out! Now… I have been drawn into your half-drunken self-pity enough for one night, I have a patient who needs me."

"Do you think he'll recover, Gaius."

(Pause.) "I hope so. Some of the marks may still fade –"

"Some won't."

"And I'm sure we can improve the state of his hand."

"What about…"

"What about what, Arthur."

"Don't – say it like that, dammit. I know I'm not imagining things. He stank like a privy, sure, but there was – that other smell. I know you know what I mean."

(Pause.)

(Pause.)

"As a physician, I can tell you that there was no lasting harm done. As Merlin's friend…"

"I don't see how anyone can possibly recover from – what I can't stop imagining was done to him."

"Merlin is stronger than you know…"

"But?"

"I wonder if part of his… behavioral patterns, aren't a way of separating his mind from his body. So he could survive what he suffered. I will have to speak to him further, watch him for the next few days and weeks, before I can say for sure."

"He's just too… passive. Merlin was never like that, before. Do you think he can – is he ever going to be the same, again?"

"Arthur…" (Gently.) "We must prepare ourselves for the impossibility of that."

…

"And throwing things is not going to do anything – apart from waking your wife."

"I'm sorry. Gaius, I'm…"

"I understand, sire. I'll excuse myself for now. Please try to get some sleep? He's going to need us all to be strong for him – and treat him as normally as possible. Good night, my lady."


	7. Who Owns Magic (2)

**Who Owns Magic** (pt.2)

Someone sometimes cups his head, lifting the rim of some vessel to his lips, and he drinks obediently. Water that tastes sweet and fresh and cool – or sometimes warm and thick and flavorful – occasionally a mouthful of something bitter.

 _Would you like to sit up_ , the old man says.

 _Someone should cut his hair_ , the girl says. _His mother won't even… recognize him._

She cries again. Merlin thinks this must be something she does often, though she shouldn't. The old man pretends not to notice, but it bothers Merlin.

 _Don't cry_ , he tells her. _It's all right_.

She sighs his name – wipes a tear – tries to smile. _It isn't._

 _Why not?_ It is involuntary, the first question he has spoken since he first screamed questions in the blurry nightmare of the wooden-walled cell, and he drops his eyes and goes still.

 _This is why not_ , she tells him, giving him a startling hug around the shoulders, and actually kissing his hair.

He doesn't understand. They don't get to the haircut, either, because the door opens and men come in.

Muscular, breathless men, intense and angry. They crowd around and hurl words – questions, demands – and they touch him, though not to hurt him yet. He closes his eyes and holds passively still, knowing it will all accelerate until he is on the floor bleeding and throbbing and convulsively wishing he could die and instead only losing consciousness.

The girl's voice, and the old man's – and then another. Thundering furiously, and he begins to shake and can't stop and when he opens his eyes they're blurry and his face is wet-cold and his head is pounding – only noticeable now because that particular pain has stopped for a while.

The men are standing in a line across the room, their eyes on the floor, as the golden-haired man speaks to them wrathfully. They seem contrite – they dart glances at Merlin – they all look different from each other, but familiar to him, and he knows they want him to say their names. They are from before.

Arthur. Dangerous. Failure. Hope.

He notices the girl at his side, her arms draped around his shoulders, when she speaks. _Arthur, please. This isn't helping_.

The golden-haired man turns – and his eyes connect with Merlin's.

His heart thumps, and he drops his eyes – then closes them as the man comes to kneel before him where he sits, unresisting. The man doesn't touch him.

 _Merlin. These are your friends. No one is going to hurt you. No one ever again, so help me… Merlin?_

He obeys the voice's intentions, and opens his eyes again.

 _Do you remember them?_ The golden-haired man gestures, and the nearest knight moves forward. His hair is dark, long and curly, his chin and jaw unshaven, his eyes bright. Merlin doesn't risk more than a quick glance.

 _This is Sir Gwaine. One of your best friends._

The words, taken together, seem to have no meaning. Friends best your of one. Sir Gwaine.

 _Pheasants_ , he says, careful not to make it a question. Fire. Goblet. _Pickled eggs._

 _Yeah_ , the knight says, grinning though his eyes are glistening. _Yeah, Merlin. We've missed you – we're so glad you're home, now._

Now home you're glad so we're.

The knight's voice sounds choked. He swears and says Arthur's name. _If I ever get my hands on the bastards who –_

 _If you're within our borders, you bring them here for me._

The girl's arms stay around him, and the golden-haired Arthur stays crouched by his knee – he doesn't touch Merlin – and the other men approach, one by one.

Sir Percival. Big enough to break bones with his bare hands. And he wouldn't.

Sir Elyan. Small and dark and calm and quiet. Merlin looks at his hands and thinks of a forge – sparks and pounding – and closes his eyes.

Sir Leon. The last. Curly hair and control and loyalty – but he's against magic, and remembering that makes Merlin tremble again.

 _That's enough for now_ , the old man says. _Percival, if you wouldn't mind doing as we discussed?_ The girl offers Merlin a tiny cup and he tips his head and swallows, trusting her. _Arthur, you may remain also, if you choose_.

Merlin's joints are melting, his vision blurring. The girl and the old man are easing him back. The old man talks about bad breaks and improper healing. Merlin looks past him to the rafters and the dust motes floating idly and the sunlight free to roam.

The big knight – Percival – moves about him, touching him, and he understands that he is being tied down.

He doesn't fight. He doesn't scream.

He does vomit over the edge of the bed – padded table – quite unexpectedly. Too much in a stomach that pinches and twists and mourns this betrayal.

 _My boy_. The old man seizes his vision. _You are safe. We are doing this to help you, please believe me. Do you understand?_

Do you understand… do you understand…

He falls away into the bleak darkness of disappointment.

When he wakes, no one is touching him, though various parts of him throb dully. His throat feels tight and his eyes are woolly. He's lying propped on one side – the old man is next to him holding a burning taper of braided greenery, reciting and –

Magic flaring in his eyes.

He leans forward intently, maybe surprised to see Merlin's eyes opened, saying his name. Desperately, hopefully.

Merlin lets his eyes slide past the old man, to rest upon the open window, and the sun at the sill. After a moment the old man rises and retreats out of sight, and Merlin watches the sunlight drift until his eyes drift closed again.

Time passes vaguely. He is informed that the old man – Gaius – gives him potions to deaden the pain of multiple re-broken bones –

his hand –

Which in turn make him sleepy. But no one throws water in his face, or throws their fists. His meals are brought by the girl – he notices that she wears very fine clothing – and always more than he can manage to swallow, no matter what she tells him about regaining strength or putting on weight.

Camelot, he's told. King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, and the knights his friends. They watch him when they think he doesn't notice, and there is tension that doesn't abate.

The day he's encouraged out of bed, and helped to dress by Sir Percival – who is calmer than Sir Gwaine and less unsettling than Sir Elyan or Sir Leon – he limps to the window with his sling, and no one stops him. He limps to the door – it's not locked – and descends the stairs with careful steps.

There are windows, and light. People – and at least one following him – but no one touches him, and he keeps away from their emotions by fixing his eyes on the floor. He wanders – feels a purpose – and comes out into the palpable weight of the sun overhead.

Summer, he thinks; a disconnected thought.

Someone says his name, and he turns instead of going still. She is on him before he can react, throwing her arms around him and weeping and holding him so tightly his once-cracked ribs protest.

 _Mama_ , he says. Stating a fact.

And her eyes, he avoids.

There is a storm of emotion there, confusing and painful. He barely grasps the fact that he is changed, since. That he fails to meet expectations he doesn't understand. They want him to answer questions he can't, and tell stories he doesn't know, and get better and go back to the way things were.

And he fails and fails again. It exhausts him.

His mother – Hunith, he knows her name without prompting, but what good does that do when he doesn't even call her that – stays. She helps Gaius in their room, and cooks and cleans and touches Merlin and speaks to him. After a week or so, she calms and it is easier for Merlin – he looks at her when she isn't looking back, and he listens, trying to follow what she's saying when she talks to other people.

But there are those moments of realization. And her grief is sharp and sudden; Merlin panics and aches, closing his eyes and keeping very still.

 _Merlin._

He responds to Arthur. King-master-owner. Opening his eyes.

Arthur doesn't kneel before him anymore, but sits on the bench with him, at the other end of it. He sees Arthur the least of anyone – he is glad to see Arthur the most of any of them – but Arthur is the best at keeping his emotions shuttered behind his eyes, and so Arthur's is the company he enjoys most. He has the idea that Arthur expresses his disappointment in Merlin's failures elsewhere – which is probably best for both of them.

 _Merlin_ , Arthur says again. _Are you happy to have your mother here? Is it helping you, at all? Or is it making it harder for you? Please tell me the truth._

He tries to answer Arthur, but. What is happiness? What is his mother supposed to help with, changing him back? Because that's not working. He doesn't even know how to try, or if it's possible.

 _Maybe_. That's the best he can do.

Arthur leans forward, abandoning the apple he's twisting on its stem. _Do you want to go home._

Merlin says, _Isn't this my home?_

Arthur smiles. It's quick, and gone again, just like Merlin's reaction to the sight – warm, and terrifying – but he sounds less tense when he says, _Yes of course. I meant to Ealdor. With your mother. It would be quieter, there…_

Ealdor sends a cold chill down Merlin's spine. And probably the people there would stare and whisper, just like the people here. Only, not with the concern he senses the most from the people he disappoints the most – it's almost worth it. And he's starting to get used to it, here. At least no one has hit him, or knocked him down.

 _I want to stay_ , he says, uncertain if it's his choice.

Arthur smiles again, and then Merlin is sure.

It isn't very long after his mother leaves, that he realizes Sir Gwaine is gone as well. He's faster and more abrupt than Sir Percival – more unpredictable, more emotional – but Merlin tries not to mind that, without really understanding why.

And it doesn't seem very long after that realization – he still limps and his hand is still bandaged, but he's begun relearning and remembering things he used to do, things he still can do, for Arthur – when Sir Gwaine comes back.

In the middle of the night, actually. Merlin shoots up in bed, gasping – and realizes there are voices, abrupt and anxious – and light illuminating the physician's chambers that he shares. He gets up – telling himself that no one will come into his room and start beating him – and checks out the door.

There are men there, carrying and supporting and pulling Sir Gwaine. Gaius is issuing orders and there is blood and Gwaine makes a sound of pain, as he is deposited onto the nearby bed that used to be Merlin's.

The other men leave, and Gaius is quick and efficient with his supplies, and Merlin dares to sidle down to Gwaine on the bed, perching on the three-legged stool where he thinks he'll be out of the old physician's way. The blood is on Gwaine's left side, though the knuckles of his right hand are bloodied, scraped clean of skin and in one place split to the bone.

Merlin winces at the sight – and then Gwaine notices him. The knight seems to forget entirely his explanation for the physician, moving his jacket and lifting his shirt to bare the wound, speaking words too fast for Merlin to want to catch them and put them in order. Then he lunges for Merlin, who freezes and allows his hand and arm to be clutched by the wounded knight.

Gwaine babbles, more upset than Merlin is. Apologizing over and over. _I didn't know. I didn't know – where you were, what it was like – if I'd known… If I'd known, I could have…_

 _It's all right_ , Merlin tells him, expecting him to respond the way they all did.

 _No it's not_. Gwaine breaks down weeping over Merlin's good hand, and he can tell Gaius is irritated because his patient isn't cooperating with his care.

 _Merlin, hand me the –_

He turns to the table where the old man is pointing, and intuition tells him, the green bottle. They used it on him, sometimes, the pain potion that made him sleepy.

 _Yes,_ Gaius says _. Give him –_

Merlin tips the bottle to Gwaine's lips – nods in what he hopes is a reassuring manner when the knight's wild tear-filled eyes meet his – then watches him swallow, about as much as Gaius or Gwen wanted him to have, ever.

Gwaine falls back on the pillow, starting to slur his words. _Tell me he's coming back,_ he says – Merlin thinks he's addressing Gaius, because otherwise he doesn't know what the knight means. _Tell me we haven't lost him for good._

 _He's there_ , the old man responds absently, beginning to clean the wound on the knight's side. _As for future changes… I cannot guarantee_.

Gwaine blinks, and tears roll out and he looks up at the rafters that are so calming – and he falls asleep still clutching Merlin's arm. Which is all right, after all.

And he sits still, watching the old man tend the wound carefully and kindly. He finds it curious, that one man could do this for another, after what he has had done to him, by other men. He likes this, to sit and watch and be a part of someone being fixed.

 _Here,_ Gaius says, handing him a larger bottle of clear liquid – and then a clean rag. He has to free himself from Gwaine's now-quiet fingers to take them, and his sleeve is blood-stained, but he begins to clean the injured hand, free of blood and grime and it is good and it settles and contents him and he notes three places he thinks the physician will have to stitch.

And he is right.

When he wakes in the morning – alone in his room – Gwaine is already gone again.

That week Gaius takes the bandages off Merlin's hand. There are scars and soreness and his fingers can't bend like those on his other hand, and two are slightly misshapen and half of one of his nails hasn't grown back – but it is much better than it was.

He moves it to demonstrate to Gaius, who says. _My boy_. (A dual ownership, he has come to understand; obligations to Gaius and to Arthur, different but important.) _What about the magic?_

What about the magic?

 _I haven't seen you do anything,_ the old man says. _Of course it hasn't been necessary, and you must still use all caution because nothing has changed here in regards to the magic, but… you still can, can't you?_

He's not sure how to answer. _The Owner,_ he says haltingly. _Had a rod. It… swallowed the magic. Not to use, to… return to the earth._

 _Is that why you didn't use magic to escape,_ the old man says.

Merlin feels disappointment and failure and drops his eyes, holding very still. The old man reaches to touch him, to squeeze the side of his thumb and wrist, and he allows it.

 _Never mind, my boy. You can't be too careful, anyway. And if it is needed – I'm sure you'll be fully capable._

Merlin isn't sure. But he doesn't know quite what to do about that. He thinks about it as he goes slowly around cleaning Arthur's quarters.

Vaguely he knows there is another servant who does much the same thing, either before or after him, making sure everything is done and nothing is forgotten. Vaguely he knows that this person is not to be there whenever he is. Confidently, he knows that even though he doesn't do a thorough job, both Arthur and Gwen want him here. And it is good for him to please them. It gives him purpose.

* * *

 _In the second year of the reign of King Arthur of Camelot (of Brytannea), a report signed by Sir Gwaine was logged by the duty officer. It was messily written, and remains hard to decipher – and oddly, carried no note from the king on any official action taken._

 _Evidently rumors had led the disguised knight to a mercenary calling himself the Owner, who had taken control of one of Cenred's furthest outposts and turned it into a place that catered to the baser nature of the types that were drawn to the anarchy of the king-less region. The sort of men who enjoyed proving themselves upon those who were weaker than they._

 _One wing, the report claimed, based on the eyewitness of Sir Gwaine, was dedicated to physical violence. The client could choose from among the Owner's many playthings, according to price, low or high, and express themselves in a variety of ways, inside a wooden-walled arena – there were ten of them in all. It was cheapest for a client to use his fists, and the cost increased with the use of feet, or clubs, or other weapons. Blunt, or sharp. A time limit was placed upon the activity, spectating was free, but observers were encouraged to buy food, and to place bets upon any number of outcomes._

 _The second wing – if the rumors were correct, and the scrawled handwriting of Sir Gwaine's report was successfully translated – was dedicated to sexual pursuits. And again, choices could be made, and acts of rising price purchased. Spectators allowed for an additional fee, according to the clients' preference._

 _It is noteworthy that this report precedes the record of a trial of the man whose alias was "the Owner" by six days. And that the council and stewards' scrolls show that preparations for invasion and conquest of the territory in question, began the day after._

* * *

 _I don't think he should go._

He realizes that the king and queen have returned to their chambers while he was absorbed in his cleaning efforts. It sounds like they're arguing. He wonders if they know he's there.

 _Maybe it's what he needs, to confront the person who did this to him. The one who was responsible._

 _And maybe it'll only hurt him more – no, you can't just ask him, how do you know he'll even comprehend what you want him to decide?_

Arthur strides into the room where Merlin is standing at the desk with a duster. He says Merlin's name, and something about the tone directs Merlin to the ceremonial crown on its pillow, across the room, and the sword that sings whenever Merlin touches it. He brings both to Arthur at once.

The sword goes on first. _Merlin, I'm conducting a trial today. We caught a man in Cenred's territory – he had several captives locked in an old outpost on the far border. They all showed signs of serious abuse – there were others there but they fled or were killed in fighting us. Merlin, we…_

Arthur takes the crown Merlin offers because the king is done buckling and settling the sword-belt, but turns it over in his hands. Merlin sees that the knuckles of his right hand are skinned and bruised – though not as bad as Gwaine's had been.

 _We know he's guilty of slave-making. Kidnaping and torture. But we want to convict him of – and probably execute him for…_ Arthur hesitates, which is unlike him, and Merlin doesn't understand.

He says, with mild uneasiness, _Cenred's territory?_

 _Yes, that's the problem,_ Arthur says with relief – and then he puts the crown on. _Not on Camelot's land, either when he committed his crimes or when we caught him – but that land isn't claimed by a sovereign ruler. I don't want to overstep bounds legally, if councilmen or any other monarch should protest – though why would they, the man's a parasite the world is better without…_

Merlin discovers that Gwen has come up right next to him, wearing a lovely purple dress that is very easy to keep looking at. She hugs his arm and says, quiet concern filling her dark eyes, _The man calls himself the Owner._

Long dark hair, brushed straight back from his face. Beard and mustache and too many teeth. The rod of stone or bone bound with the taste of copper wire…

 _If,_ Arthur says carefully. Watching him. _We can charge him specifically with crimes committed upon one of our people… then his execution will be a sure thing. And he won't ever be freed to hurt anyone else, ever again._

Do you mean me.

 _You don't have to go,_ Gwen says.

They wait. Merlin's eyes are on the floor and he is holding very still because he is sure there is disappointment and failure in their eyes and he can't see that. He can't feel that. He can't…

 _I have to go,_ Arthur says finally.

But for another moment, none of them move. And then Arthur sighs – and it cuts right through Merlin's chest – and turns to leave.

Gwen remains with Merlin, but says nothing. She is watching him stand still and watch the floor.

He moves forward, slowly and reluctantly, following Arthur. And then faster, though he still limps, almost frantically trying to catch up. His sense of time isn't good – they tease him gently like this is something that has always been true, it is not something that changed about him – and he thinks he might have been standing in Arthur's room beside Gwen for hours.

His head is pounding when he reaches the right room – the doors are opened and there are no people standing near the two thrones, so he can see past them to Arthur.

On his feet. Unharmed. Merlin gulps a sigh of relief and moves forward.

And hears the Owner's voice. And sees him, long dark hair and too many white teeth. He is saying something that sounds like a protest or denial, too respectful.

He is claiming that the people Arthur and the knights found – when they stormed the abandoned outpost he claimed as his home – were a collection of petty criminals, runaways, and folks who had been set upon by bandits in the woods, that he was providing care to.

 _And the mercenaries and others who fought back?_

 _Just defending my home._

 _And the claims made by those freed from your care? And the numerous arenas set up throughout the outpost's chambers, in many cases literally covered with blood?_

The Owner shrugs, unconcerned. _They were there when I claimed the place,_ he says. _I admit it was filthy and distasteful, but there are not enough_ _bedchambers to house everyone._

 _Bedchambers,_ Arthur says.

His voice trembles, he is so furious. His hands are fists at his sides and Merlin thinks unsteadily, this is not going well.

 _Like,_ Arthur goes on, _a cot and a table and a bucket in a closet with a lock on the outside that fairly reeks of –_

 _Arthur,_ someone says urgently. Gwen, who has come down with Merlin, but isn't touching him.

The king continues as if he meant to say all along, _Prostitution. Forced prostitution, of both females and males._

 _As I say, there weren't proper accommodations. Those locks were there before we were, and were never used –_

Arthur interrupts, _We found the keys upon your person!_

Merlin also remembers that Arthur has not been king very long. That he might have to justify himself to his council and peers for their support and the stability of relations, rather than simply commanding his will into effect as Uther did, whether it was right or wrong or proven or not. (Uther is a thought that belongs to another lifetime. And increases his headache.)

The queen says her husband's name again, too forcefully, and eyes are drawn. The people nearest her – and then they all leap to Merlin. Gwen motions and smiles – it's all right – holding out her hand.

He obeys, coming to her and feeling the people fold around behind him, just like – just like -

No, no one is hollering or placing bets or grinning with bloodlust. These are Camelot's people. Their eyes may be curious and even judgmental, but Arthur's people don't touch or hurt him.

The Owner sees him before Arthur turns, and his penetrating eyes go wide; his teeth disappear in a mouth opened with surprise.

Arthur sees Merlin, then, and his expression is such a mix of reactions that Merlin can't figure even one. Merlin moves closer – he still limps, and wonders if he will, always – so he can decipher his king's wishes.

 _You recognize him,_ Arthur says, turning back to the Owner.

 _No. He merely resembles someone I knew – I had a son, who was killed –_

Merlin hears, from somewhere in the crowd, a murmur of sympathy, and he can't have that. He knows Arthur can't have that.

He hears his own voice say clearly, _Liar._

 _I beg your pardon,_ the Owner says to Arthur. _Who is this you've brought to –_

 _This is another one of your victims,_ Arthur says. He twitches like he wants to touch Merlin, but doesn't. _He escaped, and told us the whole story. Men who pay you to hurt innocent people for fun, and the bets placed by you and your men and your – guests. As to how long your victims stay upright or conscious. How you starve them, and then sell them again. You sell their blood and their pain, their bodies and their innocence..._

 _I didn't escape,_ Merlin corrects when Arthur chokes to silence.

He wonders how Arthur knows all this. He wonders if he's told all this – it sounds so easy to say, but answers are always blocked in his throat, the wrong shape for the questions, or too tangled to be pulled out in order.

 _You said I was worthless, and should be left on the rubbish heap. You said don't bother killing me, if I crawled away in the woods to die, I wouldn't add my stench to your refuse._

The sounds of swords drawing, all over the room, startles Merlin and he goes still, dropping his head. He waits, and nothing happens. He dares a look, and Arthur has a satisfied look on his face, glancing at a group of well-dressed older men that are whispering together. Merlin recognizes several of the knights who've drawn their weapons; they look like, no matter what, the Owner isn't walking out of here alive.

 _Where did you find him?_ the Owner asks Arthur, as if he is furious and desperate, and is on the edge of giving up. Arthur ignores him. _And why did you pick him up and bring him home? Look at him, Sire –_ a sneer of sarcasm on the title – _even washed and dressed, he looks utterly useless._

 _Shut up,_ Arthur says. Giving Merlin an uneasy look and saying quietly, _Why don't you go wait in my quarters –_

 _Or is that why you've claimed him,_ the Owner says, with a particularly nasty gleam of triumph. _I've never tried that myself, but the last few customers refused to pay. He was – is – absolutely broken beyond repair._

He speaks very low, so no one has heard him but Merlin and the king. Merlin feels nothing – he supposes the words are true – but red is creeping into Arthur's face, and white around his knuckles. He seems to have remembered that honor will prevent him inflicting physical punishment himself – but forgotten that he can order the guards to silence his prisoner.

 _If I may say so, Sire –_ the title is a slur –

 _You may not – shut your filthy mouth and keep it shut,_ Arthur growls. _Merlin, go-_

Merlin hesitates.

 _It is a poor, foolish king who acts like an idiot, overgrown child with a broken toy he won't throw away –_

Merlin doesn't really listen. He recognizes that Arthur is deeply, seriously bothered – he realizes distantly that though the king will order the Owner's execution gladly, he will not punch him in any of his teeth.

He sees that the Owner is trying – is beginning to succeed – in doing to Arthur what has been done to Merlin. He can look at his body and see the scars and marks of various beatings – but Arthur will carry these words on his heart and mind and…

Merlin can't have that. He won't let the Owner break Arthur, too – humiliate his king, make him an object, make him believe he's only an object because it isn't true and it never can be true, for Arthur.

It occurs to Merlin that the Owner does not have his strange magic rod.

He reacts instantly, lifting his hand as his magic surges out of him – quietly imperceptible one moment, raging powerfully the next.

The Owner rises into the air, yanked up by magic and squeezed, though Merlin's claw-hand never touches him. He paces forward, ignoring the sudden rush of noise around him – now he's got the Owner in the arena with him, and there's no rod. Only Merlin's magic. The Owner's eyes bulge and he writhes, but it does no good. Merlin walks him to the end of the chamber – four, five paces – and slams him into the wall, three feet up, holding him in place.

 _Let's play a new game,_ Merlin says.

The Owner's eyes are wild. He kicks and jerks in absolute panic; he has no control and no hope. He begins to understand that he is Merlin's plaything, now; Merlin considers it fair to share every cut and bruise he suffered all at once, with a flick of his fingers.

Breath explodes from the man's body in a grotesque groan, and splotchy bruises bloom in seconds. Blood actually spurts from several places – his mouth, his nose – to splash on the floor. The Owner moans, a desperate sound.

(Elsewhere there is screaming. Merlin ignores it.)

It is only a few moments of pain, though, and Merlin does not know how long he belonged to the Owner. He considers again, and flicks his fingers to break bones. Ribs and hand, at least, he's not sure what else.

The Owner lifts his head and screams, a high thin sound that disgusts Merlin, as if it comes from a puppet or a doll.

Someone says, very close to him and very urgently, _Gaius,_ _no_!

And then the old man is in front of him, catching his face in wrinkled hands, bending Merlin's head to look him in the eyes, rather than at the Owner.

 _My boy,_ Gaius says.

Merlin remembers. New master. Or old one, depending on one's definition and perspective.

Gaius' voice trembles. _My boy, this isn't you. Stop now, and let him go. He will face Arthur's execution, but you – don't do this. Please._

Merlin searches his eyes, and sees a dark, distorted reflection of himself. _Who am I,_ he says blankly. _What am I._

 _You are the son I never had,_ the old man says gently.

 _You're our friend,_ the big knight – Percival – adds, from his place protecting everyone from Merlin. Or Merlin from everyone.

 _Our cousin,_ Sir Gwaine adds. His arms are outstretched as a barrier also, but he's facing Merlin. His hand is still bandaged. _Our little brother._

 _I know why you chose this,_ Gaius says in a low, private voice. _You chose this to stop him breaking you. To stop hurting. You're the strongest person I know, Merlin. Please._

Merlin looks back up at the Owner. He is pitiful, broken – no longer the arrogant, leering menace Merlin remembers. He releases the magic gradually, and the man slides to the floor in a moaning heap.

It makes Merlin feel ashamed, because he sees himself there. A moaning, bleeding, hopeless, friendless heap.

He's aware that the knights are holding others back, that Arthur is shouting orders to calm the other people present. Gwen steps forward and he catches her, turning to Merlin with a look on his face that makes Merlin gaze at the floor and deliberately feel nothing.

Slowly, the air quiets and the people stand in place.

 _Magic,_ Arthur says, and before Merlin can figure out how he has said it, Gaius has a good suggestion.

 _Merlin, kneel to your king._

He obeys, relaxing down onto his knees next to Arthur, his hands in his lap and his head bowed. This feels right, and he is content to remain resting so.

 _Take note,_ Gaius continues sharply. _All of you. He is not violent, but toward the king's enemies. As the knights are. But he is also caring and obedient and utterly loyal to Arthur. No matter what._

He hears the Owner being dragged away, out of the room, behind him.

Arthur says something about the council and reconvening and dismissal, and Merlin finds the rustle of everyone leaving the room a soothing sound. One person rustles toward him, and Gwen is crouching in her purple silk to try to see his face.

 _Are you okay?_

Above him, Arthur and Gaius are discussing – arguing – whether a person can be born with magic.

Gwen says, _You've had magic a very long time, Merlin? You used it to protect Arthur, didn't you? I used to ask you to take care of him, even though you were only a manservant… Merlin, why didn't you use magic to get away from that man? To protect yourself?_

 _It didn't work,_ Merlin tells her. He suspects Gaius and Arthur are listening also, standing above them, but Gaius already knows this. _He had a rod. All my magic went into the rod, and did nothing else. So I couldn't…_

Arthur says to Gaius, _We found that rod. It's down in the vaults right now._

Merlin goes rigid. And can still see purple silk, even when his eyes are down, so he closes them. Of course Arthur is his master, and he has the right to use the rod on Merlin. Any rod. He feels sick and disappointed that his golden-haired king would, and struggles not to. No feelings, no emotions. Like the furniture.

 _Oh,_ he hears Arthur say. And Gwen and Gaius are speaking – maybe touching him – but he hears Arthur say, _No, Merlin – not to use, I just meant… Maybe you'd like to know where it is._

Merlin pictures the vaults. Iron bars and stone walls and locks and keys. He'd rather the rod be there, than anywhere else, he thinks. Far enough away that it won't touch him or his magic. Safe from anyone who might try.

Arthur sits down beside him, right on the floor in his fine velvet and stiff heavy chainmail. _All this time,_ he says. Merlin doesn't know what he means, but dares to look at him. He looks tired – but determined, when he sees Merlin watching. _We'll get through this,_ he says. _We'll get through this, too._

Gaius says, _The only way out is forward, Merlin. You have to let yourself feel, to accomplish what healing is possible. It will hurt, like when we had to rebreak and reset your bones, but it'll be better in the end._

* * *

"What the hell, Gaius?"

"Do not speak to me in that tone, Your Majesty! I will not have this conversation – here, or in my chamber – if you're just going to shout and not listen."

"I just watched my skinny clumsy manservant lift a man in the air and pin him to a wall and half-kill him! With magic! And you expect me to be calm about it?"

"You were calm til just a minute ago!"

"Yes, til we got him to his room and settled down!"

"Was that for his sake, my lord – or everyone else's?"

"What… do you mean."

"I mean, did you remain calm so that Merlin wasn't upset or frightened – or because you thought he might lash out again and hurt someone else?"

"He's never hurt anyone, Gaius. Only that man, that I know of – and heaven knows the bastard deserved it."

…

"What about me, then."

"I beg your pardon, sire?"

"Don't play dumb, Gaius, you know what I mean. My father, and the way he treated magic-users. The way I did – the things I said – the way I treated Merlin, all those years. Before. What about when you had to reset his bones, and he didn't understand and he didn't even know who we were? What about all the chores and punishments? He argued, maybe, struggled a bit – but he never fought back with magic. I've never seen that before, they all fight back. They all hate us and try to hurt us, and Merlin –"

"Merlin didn't act until he saw that man was hurting you. There is your answer, Arthur. I was telling the truth when I said he was devoted to you – from very early on, I might add, and well before he was… taken."

"I don't understand. There's no reason for that. Why would he…?"

"He took it as his destiny, to protect you. Because he believed that you could change, and be a better king than your father – and free and protect his people, in turn."

"His people."

"Magic-users who don't want revenge, who don't want to act out their hate – or even feel it, anymore. Who just want peace and freedom and a chance to move forward."

"I heard you say that to him."

"Your father was hurt, and he made choices to protect himself – not by withdrawing, but by going to war on what had hurt him, right or wrong."

"He was a king. Kings declare war when they're attacked."

"That is so."

"He said magic was evil."

"And he believed it, sire. But I know for a fact that you believe your father was wrong about other things. Marriage laws. And restrictions of the Knights' Code."

"He was wrong about this." (Questioning.)

"In part. Magic ought not be ungoverned – but nor should it be prohibited on pain of death for anyone whose life a user touches."

"No, I can see that. After all, whose life here hasn't Merlin touched. Even my father's, before he died… Though we must speak of Morgana, in the future."

"That we must."

"What do I do now, Gaius? With Merlin?"

"I don't believe you need to change anything but the law you judge to be unjust, sire. Let him be free. Encourage him to be himself – accept who he is, and who he's not."

"Gaius, this… I don't know if I can do this."

"I believe in you, sire, and I'm not the only one. You are strong – and you have the strength of many who love you. Your wife, your knights… your sorcerer."

"My sorcerer. Heaven and hell, Gaius."

"It's your choice, Your Majesty."


	8. Who Owns Magic (3)

**Who Owns Magic** (pt.3)

Gaius is right about the way forward, it does hurt. It feels like dying backwards.

Sometimes Merlin goes very still and looks at nothing – but the hurt is all inside, and old. Fading. Some of it.

He doesn't scream, even when he wakes from a nightmare, reliving the past. He always tries to keep from crying, though it doesn't always work. He pays attention when people touch him – and he makes an effort to touch them back. Very carefully, in case it is not all right – but they smile at him. Gaius and the queen – and Arthur and the knights.

The Owner is executed quietly, when Merlin is not there. He hears Gaius and Arthur talking about magic, sometimes, when it is no longer prohibited. He makes more of an effort to answer questions, even if they're difficult or confusing.

Sometimes he follows Gaius about, assisting his work. He gradually stops doing chores for Arthur, because of the other manservant he never sees, who does a better job anyway. His friends come to share meals, sometimes, and he allows himself to feel enjoyment of their company.

The others tell Gwaine he cannot take Merlin to the tavern – and after a while, it becomes a joke. He doesn't go to the training field, either.

Merlin and Arthur spend hours in the vaults. He looks at all the objects and tries to explain them to Arthur – what they are, how they work. He shows Arthur a secret room in the library, and Arthur says he can have it for his own. He remembers a goblin trapped in a cask, and looks for it, but it isn't there. He reads, though, sometimes, so long that his friends come looking for him to come outside. He loves the books because they do not change, or lose things once written on their pages; they are the same when he forgets, and has to read a passage over again.

There's a table – with chairs – in his room. A comfortable bed-for-one, with pillows and blankets and rugs on the floor. He tries to remember to keep it all clean and neat.

He finds his interest, then, taken with things that are broken. A rug that is frayed in the corner. A chair with a seat cushion that is loose. Drawers that don't shut properly and window panes that are cracked and books whose covers are falling off. Wobbly table legs and dented armor and – that's only the citadel. He studies these things and fixes them with magic. Sometimes it is easy and immediate, sometimes he has to check his books for a long time before finding something that works.

It keeps him busy through the winter, and another. He thinks he can go about the lower town and find other things to fix, if someone goes with him. People overlook him now, rather than staring, and he has learned how to allow himself some feelings, with control. It can't be Gwaine, because he hasn't been around for a while, but maybe…

 _Some other time,_ Arthur says, when Merlin suggests the idea to him. He is sitting at the desk in his chamber, and is busy – distracted.

 _What happened,_ Merlin asks.

Arthur pushes back and sighs, and looks at Merlin. _Sir Gwaine set off for Ismere some six weeks ago, and with him went three score of our finest men. There has been no word from them since. At my request, Sir Elyan led a search party to the wastelands of the north, but he found no trace of Gwaine or his men. It is as if they have vanished from the face of the Earth. We know Gwaine and his men crossed the pass, at Isulfor, but beyond that, there was no trace. The trail went cold._

 _You want to ride out and find them yourself,_ Merlin guesses. It feels familiar to him, a little ironic maybe, and he senses that Arthur is remembering feeling like this when Merlin was taken.

 _You want to go with me,_ Arthur says.

 _Yes,_ Merlin says, before he can think about riding a horse or sleeping in the cold or facing unknown danger, and answer more honestly. He doesn't want Arthur to go without him; that is an honest truth.

* * *

 _In the winter of the third year of the reign of King Arthur of Camelot (of Brytannea), Sirs Gwaine and Percival were captured by the forces of the witch Morgana, and imprisoned in the northern fortress of Ismere._

 _The king took with him twenty_ _men, and the sorcerer Merlin. Along the way, they were surprised by a band of Saxons led by the sorceress Morgana; they were victorious but the witch managed to escape somehow during the fighting. Council notes inconclusive._

 _When they arrived at Ismere, they recovered their knights, who told of a strange unearthly being, who glowed with a white light and very kindly healed their wounds when they were alone, and who otherwise wanted to be left alone in the depths of the tunnels and caves._

 _It was not known if Morgana had discovered the creature, or conversed with it; each of the captives who gave testimony also denied betraying its presence to the witch._

 _Arthur never saw it himself. Instead, he and his sorcerer found another unearthly creature that glowed with a white light – a young dragon, by all accounts timid and deformed. Arthur gave the creature into his friend the sorcerer's care, which astonished everyone, and no one. By then it was common knowledge that the sorcerer, in the solitary secret room the king had given him, studied always on the theoretical and practical magic of fixing things. From badly broken bones to orchard limbs damaged in storms to millwheels and citadel defenses (see attached appendix of sources listed). So of course a broken dragon was his to fix._

 _They also encountered a band of slave-traders, in Ismere to bring a shipment of captured goods to the witch who was in the market for strong backs and arms. Mining, the slaver-captain confessed to the king. For what, he didn't know._

 _During the interrogation, a young man bearing a druid's mark on his chest attempted to escape. The knights who were nearest agreed that the slaver in question had spent several minutes in conversation with Merlin the sorcerer. That the young man had acted with violent magic first – and that their sorcerer had retaliated swiftly and justly._

 _The young druid-slaver's neck was broken, his death instantaneous. None of his companions knew – or cared about – his name._

 _Only one council member recorded Arthur as concerned. Evidently Merlin was noncommittal and seemingly unaffected, and Arthur let it go._

* * *

The wind is whistling as they enter the gorge that marks the edge of Annis' lands, and it makes the hair on Merlin's neck stand up even before Elyan – _It's prime ambush territory_ – gallops to Arthur. _There's something you need to see_.

There are bodies visible in the smoking wreckage of the encampment, and the caves in the cliffside watch him with empty-skull eye-sockets. Merlin decides, he does not need to see this. He stays on his horse and covers his ears with the cuffs of his jacket.

He's afraid if he listens to the wind, it will begin to sound like his name.

Keeping his balance on his saddle, he listens to his heartbeat against the inside of his living skull as the rest of Arthur's men provide proper burial for the bodies, and the steady rhythm comforts him.

Riding a horse at anything faster than a walk always gives Merlin a headache, and Arthur wants to move fast. But the wine Queen Annis serves at dinner loosens the tight band of pain that begins and ends in one particular spot on the back of Merlin's skull, even though he is thinking about Morgana.

He has only snatches of memories of her, good and bad. More bad, more recent. None of it fits together to explain why she is their enemy, and he knows no one (Arthur) wants to talk about her. He doesn't want to talk about her, he only wants to understand. In listening to Annis and Arthur, he realizes that the slaughter of the encampment is to be blamed on Saxons working for Morgana, abducting men to labor for her in Ismere. She is looking for something (magic).

And then Annis says, _So this is your sorcerer_. He likes the queen. She's honest and direct, and genuinely likes Arthur. He's only a bit disconcerted when she adds, _I would love to see him perform some magic._

But not unwilling. He thinks of fire and butterflies – but fire would be dangerous, and butterflies would make Arthur roll his eyes.

So Merlin conjures four eggs, and enchants his hands – even though his right is crippled, it isn't useless – with the ability to juggle.

It seems to work. For everyone – smiling and applauding him with wonder in their eyes – except Arthur. Whose mouth turns down in deep unhappiness as he watches Merlin.

Merlin can't have that. So he flings the eggs high above the table – Leon reaches cupped hands like he's trying to catch the nearest one, wonder turned to distraught surprise – and three of the four eggs burst into pairs of soft fluttery white wings, carrying the doves (they weren't dove eggs; it doesn't matter when it's magic) away to the rafters.

The fourth egg splatters on the table. Close enough that Arthur has to jerk his hand back and reach for his napkin.

Mer _lin_ , he growls.

Annis laughs. Merlin can't stop grinning long enough to be sorry.

That feeling seeps away as they ride away from their ally's castle, toward the inimical north. In camp at night, Merlin keeps his distance from the men who had laughed and cheered in the queen's dining hall. He sits by the stream and lets wordless laughter drift over him, because he doesn't understand it any longer. Shouldn't they be grim and serious now?

Arthur comes to sit by him. _Why are you upset?_

Merlin gestures. The men are laughing and joking, like they aren't facing death. He has a headache again from the tension in his muscles – sometimes he actually shudders, if he tries to hold too still. _Morgana's in Ismere. She's dangerous._

 _You think we don't know that?_ Arthur says calmly. _A warrior learns to enjoy each day as it comes, because it might be the last._

 _Your last day is a long time from now,_ Merlin promises him, and Arthur gives him a half-smile, like he doesn't believe him but won't argue. _Your men_ , he adds, slowly and awkwardly, working his feeling out into words. _They're… more than your friends. More than brothers. They won't abandon you, because… they know you won't abandon them_.

Any more than Arthur had abandoned him, in spite of everything. Now he understands a little better.

 _Come and have some food_ , Arthur says to him. Merlin hears, Come and join us.

So he does.

By first light, everyone is on his feet. Breakfast eaten, and the horses nearly ready.

And then they hear a horse that is not one of theirs whinny, and everyone's sword is out. Arthur spins, searching the morning-mist.

 _We're surrounded_ , Merlin informs him, feeling responsible somehow (prime ambush territory?). A dull throb begins behind both of his ears – not pain, just pressure – to realize that their battle is here and now.

But Leon declares, _We can't stay here_.

Merlin looks past him and the mist parts to reveal a woman on a horse. She is darkness, hair and fur cloak, except for her face, which is white-pale.

 _Run!_ Arthur bellows, and Merlin doesn't ever remember hearing him sound like that.

Like he's scared.

Merlin can't have Arthur scared. So he runs, like he's told, but he runs right for the woman and her horse.

He hears the clash of weaponry sound behind him as he struggles up the hill, but has no fear for Arthur fighting ordinary warriors. The woman's face lights up to see Merlin – her eyes light up as she gestures toward him.

Merlin lets her magic wash over him, dissipating into the mist surrounding the camp. He breathes hard from sprinting up the hill; the thumping in his head is more determined now. He shoves magic back at her because that seems fair, and her horse rears, screaming, before turning to bolt. She manages to swing down from the saddle and faces Merlin like the horse was a distraction she is glad is gone.

 _Morgana_ , Merlin says. It's not really a guess.

 _I heard about you_ , she says, pale lips grimacing gleefully. _All about you. Your magic. The torture – I'm sorry I missed that. If I'd known that idiot in Cenred's territory had you, I would have visited._

 _Arthur doesn't want you dead_ , Merlin says, because that's true even if Arthur doesn't know it himself, and more relevant than the Owner, who is dead. _You must leave Camelot alone. Go far away._

She throws her head back to laugh. _Camelot is mine, and you must die!_ She screams something else that Merlin recognizes for magic.

He has no idea what it's supposed to do or how to defend against it, but he sweeps it past him, spinning and gathering it to slingshot right back at her. Morgana crouches, shielding herself til her own spell is past – and then she's not smirking anymore, but glaring.

She gestures, beginning another spell – and Merlin finds he has no interest in playing this game. Arthur is fighting for his life and Percival and Gwaine are captive.

He stalks toward Morgana, each step causing the top layer of the earth to ripple away from his feet like a child stomping in a puddle. Three steps, and some of the smaller trees are tipping away from dislodged roots. Morgana staggers back – still furious, but no longer chanting. Planning something bigger, no doubt.

Merlin gathers all the air. Between them, between the trees – above the trees – between the mountains… above the mountains.

The moisture clings together, the clouds rolling upward to escape the agony of coercion, the corners of the world crackling with tension. He shoves it all at Morgana, a shrieking gale split by lightning that makes her skitter back, only stopping when she hits the trunk of a tree.

She pushes away from it, leaning forward. Squinting against the scything bits of leaf and twig and pebble newly airborne, shouting wildly in her panic.

He recognizes that spell. And considers, he might reach into it and grasp her, rake invisible fingers through her spirit and magic, tearing them apart – tearing her apart.

He considers that he might let her get away with it. He might let her get away.

But, just to be sure, he flicks the spell. Not to Ismere and the rest of her troops. Not anywhere within a thousand leagues – and the magic required to transport her further than that will drain her for… a year, maybe, he thinks.

Her eyes widen to realize what he's done – but she has no time to scream before she's whirled away, charcoal scraps of her traveling spell curling up behind her like the dead legs of a beetle. Then – gone.

Merlin releases his hold on the magic of the world.

And all the air rushes back at him, back to its place – between, above – and he is tossed back on the ground as the world growls in irritation at him and he gasps for breath. _Sorry. Sorry_.

He blinks to see two warriors standing above him. Both wearing red and the Pendragon gold standard. Upside-down in his vision, but… Leon. And Arthur.

 _Ow_ , Merlin says.

Arthur snorts, swinging away to look back toward their camp, their killing ground. Leon reaches down to haul Merlin staggering to his feet.

 _Where'd she go?_ Leon asks.

 _Far far away_ , Merlin tells them. Because his geography isn't certain, beyond the Five Kingdoms.

 _To Ismere_ , Arthur guesses.

Merlin finds his balance and turns to see that the battle is won – Morgana's Saxons down or surrendered, with only a few of Arthur's troop as casualties.

 _No_ , he says.

Arthur looks at him a moment, then nods to take his word for it.

 _Without her, do you think the other Saxons will fight for Ismere?_ Leon asks.

 _I suppose we'll find out_ , Arthur tells them.

When they reach Ismere, Merlin doesn't like the look of it. It looks like iron more than stone, square corners and dark windows like the caves.

Arthur's kept a few of the Saxon survivors prisoner, and he takes them forward to speak to the keepers of the gate. Merlin can guess that he's offering them a chance to retreat, without their mistress and her magic… He wonders how she was paying them, but it's too cold for thinking, and he's glad when gates open in surrender and Arthur's troops take over.

 _I'll go find Gwaine and Percival_ , he says to Arthur as the men dismount around them in the snowy courtyard.

 _Wait for me_ , Arthur instructs him. _Don't want you getting lost in here._

 _Sire,_ one of the men says, _we've caught a band of slavers round the corner in the side courtyard._

Arthur looks at Merlin and both of them go still for a moment. Til Merlin shivers (from the cold, just the cold) and Arthur tells his man, _We'll see to them later, once the captives are free._

Merlin thinks the king intends to leave him with Gwaine and Percival (and who will take care of whom?) when he deals with the slavers. But he remembers how bothered Gwaine was to think of Merlin's time as a captive, so he goes along with Arthur's plans to find their friends first.

They find them below the castle, below the cells. The way the torchlight bounces and jitters off the rock drags Merlin down toward memory, but the passages and chambers are so crazy-irregular he can ignore the similarities to his nightmares.

And there's Percival and Gwaine, half-naked and filthy, but fine. Except Gwaine says he's seen someone who has a strangely-shaped head and glows, and Percival shrugs.

And Merlin puts his cuffs against his ears so he won't hear whispers of his name, and crowds Arthur's heels, back up to wan winter daylight and snowflakes and frozen breath.

Merlin! He hears his name, but not in a whisper, nor in a strange voice. Not in a human voice, nor with his ears.

He hears the voices of others of Arthur's men, too – and they're not whispering, either. _Sire! There is a dragon in the main bedchamber! It won't let anyone enter, and the noise it's making!_

This time, Arthur follows Merlin.

 _Aithusa_! he says delightedly, slipping past the knight and the door, away from Arthur trying to grab him back with a handful of shirt and jacket at his shoulder.

But the white dragon is broken, twisted, mournful and untrusting. He feels such a rush of kinship that he staggers sideways for a moment (I know. Me, too.) and Aithusa panics. Breathing a small stream – comparatively; Merlin's used to Kilgarrah – of fire at the king, braced in the doorway behind Merlin.

 _No_! Merlin shouts, jumping in the way and letting the fire splash warmly against his chest. _No, Aithusa, no… it's all right, I'm here, I'll take care of you. I'll fix you…_

Aithusa ducks her head and shuffles forward, at the same time, and he reaches to rub her bare, deformed skull. He looks back at Arthur, delighted and triumphant – and laughs to see how pale all three of them are, Arthur and Percival and Gwaine.

 _Well, then_ , Arthur manages, like his mouth is dry.

Gwaine looks at Arthur. _Stray puppy_ , he suggests. _But what's a Pendragon without a dragon?_

Arthur just shakes his head, and retreats from the room.

And Merlin is determined not to let Arthur deal with the slavers alone. (He handled the caves, didn't he? He's fine!) And with Aithusa reclaimed – needing him the way he needed his friends for so long – he feels invincible.

* * *

"Gaius."

"Ah, sire – yes, come in. I've finished my evaluation of Sirs Percival and Gwaine, as well as the others held captive with them – suffering mainly from exhaustion and malnutrition, otherwise only scrapes and bruises. Food and rest and light duties for a week, by my recommendation – they'll be fine."

"Are you quite sure that's all? Gwaine didn't have any suspicious lumps anywhere on his head?"

"I… beg your pardon?"

"Did he tell you what he thought he saw, under Ismere? He said he nearly died, and was… saved."

"Yes, he did. It sounds to me like he might have encountered the Diamair. A mythical being who can answer any question truthfully – some versions called it an oracle…"

"So it was real, what he saw."

"I think it very likely. And very fortunate that Morgana did not."

"Yes, I suppose that's true… Well, whatever it was is probably long gone by now. We left Ismere empty, and Gwaine swore he told no one else what he saw."

"That's for the best, surely, sire… Was there – anything else I could help you with?"

"… Is Merlin asleep?"

"Yes, he is. Why? Is this about the dragon? Because I can assure you, sire, it poses no threat to Camelot, it seems completely under Merlin's control –"

"Hells, the dragon. We'll have to figure that out, too, one of these days… No, I just – I wondered, if he told you anything else about our trip? About anything he… did?"

"He said he juggled for Annis."

"No. Gaius…"

"He said he fought Morgana, and effectively banished her with magic – but he said you were present for that. Was there anything else?"

"Yes… At Ismere, we caught a band of slavers. And there was one, a young man with a scarf wrapped around his head, he spoke to Merlin. Now, no one heard what he said, or what Merlin answered, but… Even surrounded and outnumbered, the young slaver grabbed a crossbow to attack, and Merlin…"

"Merlin what, my lord?"

"He… snapped that boy's neck with a flick of his fingers. It was… brutal."

"Mmm. Was the young slaver going to attack Merlin, or yourself, sire?"

"Was he – I, I don't know. Would that make a difference?"

"All the difference, Arthur."

"Why? Gaius, if you know something you're not telling me – you said Merlin didn't talk about the trip."

"Sire… There is really no good reason to explain these things to you now, except the necessity that you understand Merlin. I think what he did was not brutal, but… both practical and merciful."

"What? do you mean by that?"

"Merlin told me, he met someone he once knew, on this trip. Someone he'd been told would one day bring about your death."

"My death?"

"Merlin has always believed in destiny. And fate. He didn't know how, or why… but if this young man was the one foretold as your murderer, _and_ he acted in violence first, do you see why Merlin would not hesitate to end the threat he posed – in fact or in potential, in that moment and with you so near?"

"… He didn't seem bothered. Like he wasn't sure why we were making a fuss."

"If you worry that the lingering effects of his own trauma have affected him, to seem like he's lost his heart or his soul, don't be. Just… watch to see how he cares for your knights, your friends, who are recuperating. Watch to see how he cares for that dragon that makes you so nervous. Perhaps he lost compassion for your enemies, Arthur, but perhaps that protects _him_. Do you see?"

"Because he's had to fight in his own way, and kill. Yes, I've seen how that can twist a man up inside. I've felt it. And… no, I don't want that for Merlin."

"He has not lost the ability to tell the difference between friend and enemy, Arthur. Do not ever doubt his conscience. It is intact, and pure, as is his –"

"Arthur? What are you doing here?"  
"Nothing, Merlin, I'm just leaving. Go back to bed."

"Are you hurt? Do you need something? I can –"

"No, I said. Just… you need your rest. I'm just going, to bed myself, so you – get some sleep, and I'll see you in the morning."

"There's blackberry jam for Gwen's breakfast biscuits – I asked the cook when we got back."

"Good. I'm sure she'll love that. Good night, Merlin – and don't trip on the last –"

"Oops. Night, Arthur."

…

"Good night, my lord."

"Heaven help us all, Gaius."

"I believe it is, sire. I believe it is."

* * *

 _In the autumn of the fourth year of the reign of King Arthur of Camelot (of Brytannea), the annals of the council contain a surprising invitation for yet another peace treaty. From a former queen, an undeniable power and the leader of a substantial army – of no kingdom, but looking to conquer land. Many arguments were made, and a consensus reached that the threats were significant and therefore the demands were sure to be also._

 _The sorcerer who had no seat at the table, but attended anyway – he spoke infrequently, but when he did, it was worth taking heed of – declared bluntly that Arthur would die at the place of meeting. That Arthur's bane was himself; he was too trusting. The words recorded seem surprisingly calm._

 _The council recommended that their king decline – or at least negotiate for different terms, an alternative place of meeting. No one registered surprise when Arthur went anyway to meet the witch who'd claimed his name – and his throne, once. No one registered surprise that Merlin went as well – except maybe the witch._

 _And no one was surprised, except maybe Arthur, that the meeting was indeed an ambush._

 _The witch brought a creature of dark magic – see the accompanying scroll for the court physician's commentary – to neutralize Camelot's magic. There is speculation that she expected to cripple Merlin. There is speculation that she did not expect him to retaliate by drawing Arthur's sword (in later years it came to be known properly as Excalibur)._

 _Experts agree that the wound was mortal. Experts do not agree on whether her body was recovered, buried, or burned._

* * *

The next year is very quiet. Sometimes Merlin thinks about Morgana, about where she ended up after the traveling spell he interfered with, and whether she's making her way back to Camelot.

They travel through the kingdom, and see evidence that the people in Camelot's villages are starting to accept magic back again – maybe cautiously, but for the most part, peacefully. One old woman gives Arthur a magic horn, and Merlin stores it with the rest of the artifacts in the vaults that he's organized.

On Arthur and Gwen's anniversary, Merlin magics a picnic – all except the food. It's a marvelous day, and he falls asleep under a nearby tree, content in the knowledge that his king and queen are safe and happily in love.

They entertain company from other kingdoms, in Camelot. Notably, King Rodor and Princess Mithian from Nemeth; he doesn't remember meeting them before, but they are both kind and pleasant. Merlin offers to juggle eggs at dinner, and Arthur turns him down emphatically – but there is a twitch at his lips that makes Merlin feel successful, anyway. Merlin entertains company from other kingdoms – a pair of druids that bring a prophecy on a little scrap of paper that he tucks into the book he's currently reading to mark his place.

One day he is surprised by Arthur in a truly foul mood. It has nothing to do with Merlin, but with Arthur's paperwork, which Merlin usually leaves undisturbed – because he doesn't like when people disturb his desk, he gives his friend, his king, the same consideration. But Gwen promises that she'll take care of responding to the missive, and Arthur subsides from a roar to a growl.

 _Who's the Sarrum?_ Merlin asks, because he's never heard the name (title?) before.

 _No one_ , Arthur says forcefully. And that is the end of it.

Then they receive word that Morgana has returned.

 _She wants Camelot_ , Merlin tells Arthur. _She wants us dead_. Arthur grunts because he already knows this, but still doesn't really want to talk about it.

And then they receive word that Morgana wants to meet. In a place that no one has heard of before except Percival – who knows where it is – and Merlin. Who knows what it means, from his book-marker scrap of prophecy.

So he rides next to Arthur. And he sleeps next to Arthur. And no one says anything when he accompanies Arthur to the appointed meeting place – a drab tent that flaps tattered edges, making Merlin shiver like the wind is trying to tell him something.

Morgana is accompanied by a Saxon warrior. Merlin assumes he's the leader of whatever army she's gathered to deal with Arthur's knights – and briefly wonders if his trick in sending her further away resulted in her being able to find these men.

 _Arthur_ , Morgana says, her chin up from the black fur she wears to keep off the chill of the wind. _Dear brother. It's so good to see you again_.

She doesn't mean it. And she ignores Merlin, who's happy for that. He's nervous because he knows she intends to betray them all, and he's the only one who can counter her magic. He wonders what he will do if she tries to retreat, like before – whether he will let her go, and in another year they will repeat this. And again, and again. But Arthur seemed so upset when he killed Mordred outright, Merlin can't quite make up his mind to kill Morgana.

 _Why are you here, Morgana_ , Arthur says, and he sounds tired. Maybe just from their ride. _You know you cannot have Camelot._

 _Maybe not all of it,_ she says. _But I could make it very difficult for you to hold it all, without help. I could make your allies re-think their support._

 _So what do you want_ , Arthur says.

 _It's absolutely ridiculous that I would have to buy my birthright_ , Morgana says spitefully. _But I'm prepared to offer you gold. In return for peace – and half the kingdom. Which should have been mine when our father died, anyway_.

Her Saxon companion steps forward with a large chest in his arms; Merlin thinks he must be very strong, if the chest is full of gold. Or maybe they want it to look like more than it is.

 _I think you gave up any claim to inheritance rights when you killed our father_ , Arthur says, and Merlin hates his tone. It makes his chest and teeth ache.

 _I know thinking was never a strong point for you_ , Morgana sneers, _but just consider…_

The Saxon reaches to lift the lid of the chest, as if to display the gold. Except, his eyes are on Merlin, and he's angled toward him, like it's his choice, and he's letting the base of the chest fall as if he means to spill out whatever's inside. And Morgana's looking at Merlin the same way as she had when she first laid eyes on him a year ago.

Eager. Aggressive. The shadows in the box move and look solid and -

Merlin twists in place, reaching for Arthur's sword, that Sir Elyan as the king's brother-in-law, is carrying bare across his arms, ceremonially. Elyan flinches – maybe Merlin's cut his arm accidentally; he'll fix it later. Or maybe it's the monstrous sight of the contents of the chest that the knight reacts to.

It looks like an enormous earthen tongue. Flying through the air toward Merlin – who almost freezes in disgust and horror. Almost.

He shoves Arthur's sword through the thing – and it's more like air than earth. There's no resistance whatsoever, and Merlin lurches forward, leading with the sword-point until it cleaves another body, straight through.

The monster from the chest wriggles, shriveling and shaking to dust. He can feel the tremors from Morgana's body through the blade in her chest as he stares astonished into her eyes.

I never meant to…

But this is it, he knows, even as her lips move in a familiar spell, and the air begins to wrap around her body in silver swirls. And he's both going to let her go, and kill her.

 _Goodbye, Morgana_ , he says, and it's odd, but he feels sorrow in the moment.

And she's gone.

Behind him, Gwaine is swearing, but examining the cut on Elyan's arm. Percival punches the Saxon right in the face; since his arms are still full of the empty chest, he's unarmed and shocked into distraction by what just happened to his sorceress, and drops unmoving to the ground.

By Merlin's side, Arthur sighs, his eyes fixed on the place where Morgana just disappeared – starting to fall, her mouth open on her last breath. Merlin lets the sword drop; probably he shouldn't have used it, because of Kilgarrah's warning, but. He's not sorry this time, either.

 _Is she dead?_ Arthur asks quietly. Merlin only nods. Arthur lays his hand on Merlin's shoulder. _Brought peace at last_ …

* * *

 _In the eighteenth year of the reign of King Arthur of Camelot and Albion (of Brytannea), Merlin the sorcerer wrote a lengthy missive to his sovereign, found in his chambers after his disappearance, transcribed as follows:_

Dear Arthur. Don't be mad at me. I know what I'm doing, truly. You don't need me anymore, not really, Albion is united so there's nothing important left for me to fix. We both know why I was doing it, anyway. A fool's errand, right?

The girl I met last week is an enchantress. She means to lock me up in a tree or a cave – what I see of the future keeps changing, I guess she hasn't made up her mind yet. She doesn't know I know.

Arthur, I'm not going to fight her, I'm going to let her. She can't use any magic she takes from me, and quite honestly I'm looking forward to hours and hours of rest, uninterrupted by dreams. You know.

You are still and will always be the Once and Future King. You will be there for your land and your people when they really need you – and I will be there for you when you really need me. I promise.

 _It was signed:_ Yours, Merlin _._

* * *

"Gaius… Gaius."

…

"How can I bear this? He's always been there for me, I can't get used to not seeing him. His smile, and that light in his eyes when he was happy. He was my conscience, too, Gaius, I relied on his simple wisdom _so much_."

…

"Is he with you? Is he dead? We can't find that girl – damn her – so I don't know… I don't know… Is he gone, or just…"

…

"We all miss him. It's not just me. Everyone loved him. And we can't even – really – have a funeral. Maybe a memorial, though…"

…

"I was thinking of Camlann the other day, again. And he saved my life. And we've had peace – well, mostly – since then. I wish… I just wish I could have saved his life, you know? But if… if he thinks that this is his peace…"

…

"He promised that he'd be there, when I really needed him. I guess, since he's not here… I'll just have to keep on, the way we would've if… And just, never forget him."

…

"I miss him so much already."

* * *

 _There is a legend that a single tree grew in the rocky pass of Camlann for years, toward the end of the reign of King Arthur of Camelot and Albion (of Brytannea). A white hawthorn._

 _It is said that King Arthur, sometimes accompanied by those closest to him, made yearly pilgrimages to this unusual site._

 _Some legends claim that Arthur never died, truly, that he was instead placed comatose on a magical barge and sailed to Avalon (Tir na n'Og), the land of eternal youth. And that one day, the laws of the supernatural will bend for him, releasing him back to the living side of the invisible veil of spirits._

 _Other legends say that it was not in battle that Arthur's life ended, though at_ _Camlann. That he was surprised – ambushed – by a young sorceress (another word is enchantress, though it might also be an oblique reference to a proper name, or title), capable of changing age or appearance or both. And that from that moment on, a second tree stood beside the gnarled hawthorn – a straight and stately oak._

 _Of course other legends exist about the return of the king. And what might happen to the man who fells a certain pair of trees growing stubbornly together in a place of death (or just very rocky soil). But if it is future, who can say for sure?_

* * *

 **A/N: I promise, this is the darkest one of this collection – a little better from here on out. Next up, Mordred complication…**

 **Also, I'm a NaNoWriMo 2017 winner! This has been my best year yet, plans going relatively smoothly, word count coming out easy, no major self-doubt… But I've got five and a half chapters to go before I'm finished with the story, so… Second wind, anyone?**


	9. To Kill the King (1)

**A/N: Time frame: just after ep.5.5 "The Disir."**

 **To Kill the King**

Mordred used to be naïve. About magic, and about Emrys. But that was a long time ago, when he was a child, and saw the world through a child's eyes.

 _It's all about me. What I want, what I need, what I expect. Emrys will save me, he's supposed to, he has to._

And he did… and he didn't.

It took Mordred a long time to realize, the destiny of Emrys and the responsibility to all magic, meant Emrys could not, would not, did not concentrate on one lonely lost druid boy. Especially one who made choices that challenged Emrys to prioritize two responsibilities that were not yet compatible – Magic and King.

Since he'd returned to the daily domain of his two lifelong idols, Mordred believed he'd been careful to make better choices. Do as Emrys did – protect the king, and hide the magic. Even with his life.

So he had done in the cave below Ismere when Morgana threatened Arthur. So he had done in the cave in Breneved when the threat was the Disir.

He'd protected Arthur so that Emrys did not have to risk magic, in so doing. And he wasn't naïve; when the staff of judgment struck him and the darkness enveloped him like a shroud, he knew that magic would be his only salvation.

So Emrys would save him, again… or not. Again.

And when he opened his eyes to Gaius' chamber and astonishment – no pain, complete healing - he had to struggle with a feeling of euphoric disbelief.

He'd been given a second chance.

It was incomprehensible; he itched to know _why_. He waited with impatience at the head of the courtyard stair, fully dressed as a knight of Camelot – chainmail and crimson cloak – to demonstrate once again, his commitment to the king and his willingness to serve the servant.

 _One day we will live in freedom again…_

Arthur embraced Mordred like a little brother – finally part of the family, no more riding backwards in the saddle – with a full grin. Emrys shied away, not meeting Mordred's eyes, and he understood that much, at least; the magic was still secret.

So Mordred's gratitude would have to be tendered in secret.

Following the afternoon training session, Mordred headed for a particular intersection of corridors not regularly frequented. He'd seen Emrys and Gaius observing them from an upper gallery, and if he hurried, he could catch the younger man without alerting the elder.

It worked. Gaius passed, and Mordred snatched a handful of worn brown jacket, arresting Emrys' stride.

"Merlin," he said, because that was one of Emrys' unspoken rules, the use of his common name.

Emrys' glare – though he had made no sound in his startlement, ready as always for anything – reminded Mordred of the second unspoken rule. No touching. He released his grip on Emrys' jacket.

"I just wanted to say," Mordred paused, apologetic for alarming the man with the abrupt manner of his approach, "thank you. For whatever you did, that saved my life."

"That wasn't me," Emrys said immediately, not really relaxing. "That was Arthur."

Mordred shook his head. "It was magic, I know it was. And I… I know I make you feel uneasy –"

"No you don't it's fine," Emrys said, far too swiftly for it to be the truth.

Mordred carried on, "Maybe you think I'm going to make a- a mistake." _Another_ _mistake_. "And betray you to Arthur, or be caught using magic while it's still against the law, but. I want you to know. Whatever your plan is for bringing magic back to Camelot, I will support you in whatever way I can. You need only tell me what I can do – in part, or in full… I believe in Arthur, too."

Emrys had folded his arms over his chest, hunched his shoulders to stare at the ground, as if he could concentrate better when he wasn't looking at Mordred's face, remembering the child he'd been. And those mistakes.

"You really thought," he said in a low voice, trailed off, then started again. "In that cave, you really thought you were sacrificing your own life. You were willing to die so that Arthur would live. Even though he is not… a friend to magic."

" _Yet_ ," Mordred stressed. Thrilled that Emrys was not being evasive, today. At long last. Daring to drop his stiff defensiveness, himself. "But he will be. That's his destiny."

"Destiny," Emrys said gloomily. "Is destiny ever wrong, Mordred?"

"No," he said firmly. "Although… it can be misdirected…"

If it had been him, he'd have told Arthur the whole truth, the morning after the king's coronation. But it had been almost four years since that day, and Emrys was still tying his own hands with his secrecy. Or so it seemed to Mordred; perhaps really it was part of some grand elaborate scheme he couldn't see in its entirety.

"Misdirected," Emrys echoed, lifting his head to look away down the corridor, seeing something Mordred didn't. "And you believe in Arthur's rightful reign. And you'd see magic returned to Camelot without violence."

"Without spilling a single drop of blood on either side," Mordred vowed intently. "If it can be done. And _long_ live the king."

"I have some," Emrys said vaguely, "research, to do? But I would speak with you again, about this."

"Any time," Mordred promised, relieved. Was he finally to be trusted. "Whenever you like."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Evidently Emrys took his offer literally. Mordred woke in a cold terror in the middle of three nights later, with a man's hand over his mouth to stifle any outcry, and the terrifying gleam of gold magic in eyes bending far too close over him.

For a moment, he wasn't sure if he should be relieved to recognize Emrys.

Then the hand was moved. "If you hold to your oath, your life for the king's and magic returned peacefully… follow me."

Emrys' boots made no sound, crossing the floor to the door of the chamber, and Mordred scrambled to find his own without waking the other knights who shared his quarters. Emrys didn't wait, and Mordred was glad – darting after him and finally catching up when they reached the last open-air gallery and stair – that he didn't sleep bare-chested like some of the other knights.

Hide the magic and all signs of it, after all.

It was cool, but light – a full moon. Emrys ghosted like a shadow, far more graceful than he ever was at Arthur's heels in daylight. He never glanced back, but twice he froze, holding Mordred in place so they weren't discovered by an unexpected guard. Either his hearing was much better than Mordred's, or he knew the guards' routes and timing much better than by heart.

Or maybe he could _see_ around corners. Mordred had heard of magic that could-

And then Emrys was pulling him forward again. Hurrying him right out of the citadel – a gestured noise distracted the last guard at the gate, and they were through.

Mordred didn't think he'd ever be able to travel the lower town on his own, unnoticed – there were more people, and of the sort more likely to be out of bed at odd hours, in addition to the patrols whose job it was to be alert to skulkers. But Emrys ducked and darted and hid – noiseless but his body moving with panting even when they held still – and they were at the edge of the forest before he realized, in addition to his worn brown jacket that Mordred coveted against the chill in the air, he'd also brought the supply bag he often carried on his trips with Arthur or his errands for Gaius.

Because there was no one to overhear and because the way the warlock headed for the trees with grim determination made Mordred wonder and worry, he dared to break one of the unspoken rules.

"Emrys!" he hissed at his companion's back. "What are we doing? Where are we going?"

He wasn't entirely prepared for Emrys to turn and face him, mottled moonlight-and-shadow under the forest leaves.

"You haven't been happy with me," he said. "You've been impatient, dissatisfied… You've thought about how you'd do things differently, if they were yours to do. How you'd do things better."

Mordred was suddenly unsure Emrys' _you_ applied solely to him. "But Emrys, you-"

" _Don't_ call me that." Two gulped breaths, then a moment of silence before Emrys spoke again, eyes glittering. "I can't do this, Mordred. I've lied to him so many times, I'm lying to myself, now. I can't keep protecting him by letting others die because I have to hide my magic because I haven't told him yet because if I do he'll banish me at least and then I can't keep protecting him."

Mordred started to protest – on principle, because that one sentence held such a tangle of probabilities he didn't really know if it was possible to refute it all, or even some.

"No, don't. It's true. There's been so much deception between Arthur and me, I don't… I don't think I can… ever tell him. That I have magic. And how… how can I help magic return to Camelot, like that."

It made Mordred feel colder, and a little bit scared, to have Emrys be so brutally honest, to sound so vulnerable and young and _unsure_. He opened his mouth and asked again, "Why are we out here?"

"Why did you call me Emrys, the first time we met?" he returned, shifting his weight and starting forward again, though slower than before and in company with Mordred, rather than leading him.

"Because I recognized that you –"

"Was I _born_ with this destiny, truly? Or did I _become_ Emrys when I chose to stay with Arthur and save him and serve him? And…" Emrys paused for the space of four steps, over the uneven forest floor, twig and brush and grass. "Can such a thing as destiny be passed to another."

Mordred stopped. Emrys didn't quite face him, looking back over his shoulder, almost entirely in shadow.

"Why are we out here?" Mordred repeated. Sounding and feeling unsteady.

"Would you do it? Would you take it? The responsibility, the destiny? Protect Arthur with your utmost, your life's blood, your very soul – and have the courage to tell him and show him the truth about magic?"

Mordred's chest felt tight with both fear and anticipation. It was familiar; he'd felt the sensation many times over the years. His life was always uncertain, and often dangerous. "Are you saying that you're not –"

"He is a good man. A good king," Emrys spoke fervently. "Fair and just, better than his father, he's made peace with the druids and he wouldn't execute anyone simply for _having_ magic. But I… what I've done, what I've said… I can't fulfill my destiny, Mordred, not when it comes to magic in Camelot. Not anymore. But it still needs to be done – so someone else has to do it."

"You trust _me_ with that?" Mordred breathed, doubtful himself. It was an enormous, overwhelming realization.

"Not… yet. But unlike Morgana, or others… as a knight you've sworn to serve and protect the _people_ of Camelot. And that's an important difference."

Emrys started forward again, and Mordred followed, stumbling more often in his distraction. Contemplating such a thing, to take up the mantle of _Emrys_ , to actually be the one choosing and deciding – and what of his past mistakes? Who was to say he wouldn't make mistakes with this charge?

"I found a… ritual," his companion went on. "Originally meant to trade one life for another. I've adjusted the definition of _life_ , though, so that I will be able to transfer my destiny to you."

"You – _what_?" Mordred had often wished, he could have grown up like the most fortunate druids, in one camp with one small, trusted set of elders and instructors, learning all there was to know. Because _this_ , he'd never heard of. "Trade one life for another? That's said to be… incredibly powerful magic. How do you know you can…" Oh, wait. This was _Emrys_ , after all.

"I've done it before," Emrys mentioned, almost casually. "Not intentionally, but… I've got the incantation for it, now, that's better than instinct. The very worst that will happen is… it won't work. And we'll have to go back to being… exactly who we are, now."

Mordred glimpsed the weight of the invisible burden his companion bore. Uncomplaining, day and night, for close to a decade, now. He supposed he couldn't blame Emrys for being a little eager to be free of it. He himself still felt that dreadful anticipation of voluntarily heading into danger, in the hopes that he might change the course of events. Save someone good, stop someone bad… But that was the purpose he'd chosen, when he'd taken the oath of a knight of Camelot.

"But wait," Mordred panted after Emrys, the chill night air prickling his lungs when he breathed. "Your destiny was prophesied hundreds of years ago, before you were born. To change something that old, you'll need _old_ magic, and yours is powerful, but not –"

"I know," Emrys said.

At that moment they broke out of the dappled shadows of the forest into the silvery glow of an open clearing.

And they were not alone. Mordred gaped, as a solid shadow that would have filled Arthur's council chamber shifted – and growled.

"Young warlock, I warned you! You must not meddle – cut the ivy from the oak-"

Emrys hissed a word that Mordred didn't understand – that made his hair rise on his scalp – and made a slashing motion with one arm.

Mordred was glad that the fury contained in his tall slender idol was not directed at him this time, but – a dragon? He knew enough to be wary of the creature; stories of the Great Dragon's death were obviously false, but he was old. Which also meant, canny and manipulative. The druids had warned against blind belief in the words of such creatures. Truth could be twisted to their own ends, even when it seemed straightforward.

"I'm done, Kilgarrah," Emrys said, with familiarity and contempt that were both astonishing to Mordred, for different reasons. "I won't blame you for the mistakes I've made, with Arthur, with… anyone. But I'm done making them. You have _used_ me in the past – let neither of us deny that – but now I will use you, and you will _not_ make me feel guilty. _This is_ my solution to the ivy on the oak."

The dragon's bulk shuddered again, as if he was trying to fight against whatever Emrys had done to capture and compel him, and Emrys spoke another incomprehensible command or insistent warning.

Mordred dared step closer to his side. He really didn't like the baleful glare smoldering on him from the creature's illuminated eyes. "If I were you, I wouldn't treat him so," he murmured. "Neither would I trust him…"

Emrys snorted, rummaging in his pack. "I'm doing this because I don't trust him, not anymore. But a dragon's magic, like anyone's, is free at its core from motive, either good or bad. That's what I will command, that is what we will use for this ritual."

"Are you sure –" Mordred began uncertainly. And flinched as Emrys withdrew his hand, having found –

A knife, moonlight glinting along its edge.

"Do you trust me," Emrys asked in a low voice. The blade balanced across his other hand; there was nothing threatening in voice or manner, but Mordred felt that the dragon – the night stars, the earth and wind, all of history – watched them now with bated breath.

With regard to Arthur and Camelot and Magic, he trusted Emrys completely. With himself… no. But that was also the point, wasn't it. To test his resolved sacrifice, giving himself for the greater good. And he'd never before been in such a poignant position to prove it.

"Yes," he said.

Emrys' long fingers closed over the blade, with a twist and a pull. Mordred winced – and took the bloodied knife when Emrys handed it to him.

"Left or right, does it matter," he said.

"It doesn't."

Mordred laid the blade to his left palm, choosing to leave his sword-hand uninjured. Squeezed and pulled at once, without reconsidering. Pain and nerves sparked, mixing his blood with the sweat on his skin and Emrys' blood on the knife.

Emrys took the knife and bent the tip to the ground, carving the earth with their mixed blood in a circle around him, closing the circle before joining it to another around Mordred's feet in a symbol of timelessness. Then he let the dagger fall, and stood, holding out his opened hand.

Mordred took it; Emrys' grip was firm and tight, and the cut twinged with pain. Mordred's heart pounded and head spun as the warlock spoke – Am I really doing this? I'm really doing this –

" _Thurh minum gewealde, ond usserum dreorum, ond maegen thaes fyrdraca…"_

His eyes burned gold in the night, as the dragon shifted and lashed his tail. Mordred gasped, feeling first the pull of his own magic, from his heart, down his arm, through his palm.

It felt a little like bleeding to death. Weakness, emptiness, cold…

" _Hie gewrixledon thaes gast-wyrd…"_ More words, of the sort Emrys had already spoken, and which Mordred did not understand. The dragon's magic, somehow, answering to Emrys' use.

Then the flow of magic reversed. A burst of heat, building and building, melting his hand and exploding through the bonds of bone and muscle and skin. His arm was numb, his heart throbbing, his brain igniting –

Mordred found himself on his back, the stars quivering in his vision, the moonlight swirling all around. For a moment he tried no more than to lay still and continue to exist.

Surprised to be breathing, but each exhalation returned more normalcy, til at last he felt very little different than any day or night. A bit light-headed. A bit heavy-hearted. He knew the spell had worked, and the knowledge of new responsibility – not just to follow and offer Emrys aid and support, but to step into the lead, himself – was sobering. Staggering.

He struggled up to sitting in the grass, feeling the damp of dew and the chill breeze as welcome, after the heat generated by the ritual.

The dragon was quiet, his jaw resting on the ground, head curled away from them to the other side of his great body. Emrys – no, Merlin – knelt a pace or so away, hands clasped between his knees, and head and shoulders bowed.

"It worked," Mordred managed. "Didn't it."

"It did." Emrys – Merlin – gave a shuddering sigh. "You'll forgive me, though, if I don't call you Emrys."

"No," Mordred said immediately. "I mean, no don't… call me that." And only now did he fully understand why Em- Merlin, had always resisted the title. He didn't feel worthy – it was incomprehensible that _Mordred_ would be worthy of this honor and this charge.

"Kilgarrah, you are free," Merlin said. He didn't move, not even to lift his head; he sounded sad. "You may go."

The dragon shook itself, and snapped out its wings so suddenly that Mordred ducked, though Merlin didn't react. "In all my life," the beast growled, "I have never witnessed so great an abuse of power –"

"Be assured, it will be my last," Merlin interrupted evenly.

"May that be true." The dragon gathered himself. "Kin or not, I hope it is a very long time til I am forced to suffer your voice again, young traitor."

Merlin flinched at that word.

Mordred scrambled up, instinctively defensive. "Now wait a minute –"

The dragon ignored him, turning away as he launched himself into the night. The air itself thumped heavily against Mordred's skin and ears, hair and clothes blowing coldly. Stars winked in and out of existence, til the creature had flown too far to be easily seen or heard in the night sky.

Mordred ripped a piece of his nightshirt-tail, and wrapped it around the sore, sticky fingers of his left hand. Then eyed Merlin, who still sagged over his knees with bowed head.

"Are you all right?" he said. "Are you going to –"

"I'm not going back," Merlin said, sniffling into his sleeve. Dropping his hand, he lifted his head, looking away from Mordred. "I've left a note with Gaius, explaining everything, but…"

"But what about the king?" Mordred said.

Another deep sigh leaked from his kneeling companion. All his determined energy and furious magic seemed to have drained away, now that the night's work was finished, and their decision rendered irrevocable. "I don't know what to say to him. Or Gwen. Or the knights. You'll tell them I'm sorry?"

"I'll tell them whatever you like," Mordred promised. "But why don't you come yourself and –"

"I can't." Merlin pushed himself to his feet by slow degrees, one leg under him, then the other. Staggering slightly, arms out for aid in balance. "I'm leaving Camelot. I think Arthur will understand, when you explain to him…"

Mordred wasn't sure _he_ understood. "You want me to tell him about your magic?"

"You can. Or Gaius can. Tell him I'm sorry, and… try to keep him from coming after me? Tell him I won't return to Camelot. That he can't find me. That I never meant to hurt him, but… I can't see how I can prevent that, at this point. One way or another."

"Are you sure?" Mordred said, feeling an extra measure of dismay, that Em- Merlin would not be there to advise him. That he'd be fully on his own, with this. "Where are you going? What if I –"

"I won't tell you," Merlin said, adjusting the lay of the strap over his shoulder. "For your sake, and Arthur's."

"Yes, but – _now_?" Mordred was no stranger to the need for unexpected and immediate and involuntary changes, but this was evidently by Merlin's choice – self-exile that was swift and final.

"I've had three days to think about it, and decide," Merlin said.

"You'll be alone, and it's night… have you someplace to go to? Other friends, in other places?"

"Not anymore." Merlin shook his head. "Doesn't it strike you as ironic, for you to show concern for where I'm to go, and what I'm to do, in leaving Camelot?"

Mordred huffed, recognizing that. Mistakes of the past, though, and his rather than Emrys'… It occurred to him for the first time that Merlin might not see it that way, might see what he considered his own mistakes, when he looked back.

"I deserve this," Merlin said, squaring his shoulders and turning his face away again. "You know it as well as I. I've done as much as I can. More or less than I should've. Now all I can do for him is to leave." He looked at Mordred with an air of finality, even in the dark. "Goodbye, Mordred."

"I swear your trust is not misplaced," Mordred told him. "I will do my best, for Arthur and for magic, goddess as my witness."

Merlin's hand squeezed his shoulder, as he took a shaky breath. Then Mordred stood alone, listening to his retreating footsteps. And it wasn't long before he was gone.

Mordred was back in his shared chamber in the knights' quarters, shivering with cold and reaction, wondering if it would be worth it to crawl between his sheets and try to sleep again, when he noticed the blood on his nightshirt. Merlin's blood, his wounded hand left unbound.

Be careful what you wish for, he realized.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The citadel was in a mild uproar for two days. Mordred didn't know whether to be jealous of or proud for the missing manservant. Perhaps Merlin had been so focused on his dual and disparate goals that he hadn't noticed the impact he made on nearly everyone.

For two days, Mordred avoided the suspicion of the court physician – how much had he known of Merlin's thoughts and destiny? how much had Merlin told him in that letter? For two days he endured the puzzled irritability of his king, trickling down into the puzzled irritability of the knights who'd been closest to both Arthur and his secret warlock.

Then, once again after a training session, Mordred positioned himself to express gratitude and loyalty. Following Arthur discreetly but determinedly, and the king either didn't notice him, or didn't choose to acknowledge him, til he'd almost reached his chamber door.

"Sir Mordred," the king said, pausing and not quite facing him. "Was there something else?"

Was two days enough time for Em- for Merlin to affect his chosen disappearance. "I have news of Merlin, sire."

Weariness splintered off the king's frame – his head came up, his shoulders straightened, his eyes lit. He turned and actually took hold of Mordred's arm – a habit of touch Mordred was still unused to, the physical camaraderie of knights.

"You know where he is? Where he went when he left?"

"No, my lord." It surprised Mordred, the ache in his chest when the fire died in Arthur's eyes, extinguished in disappointment. He wasn't sure if it was comfort he was intending to offer when he opened his mouth and added, "But I can perhaps tell you why he left…"

The king looked at him oddly. Looked him over – and Mordred realized, from his perspective it would sound strange, after the stiff, awkward, reluctant way he and Merlin had interacted. Many of the knights were closer to and more comfortable with Merlin; how and why should Mordred have insight in a matter that confused them.

But Arthur only said, "You mean it wasn't just washing one too many dirty socks?... Come inside."

He left the door open; Mordred followed and shut it – tentatively, in the absence of orders either way. No servant waited to assist the king; the queen was absent also; Arthur stripped his gloves and crossed to pour himself a cup of water at the side table himself.

"So Merlin spoke to you when he left?" the king said. "Even Gaius only had a note."

Mordred hummed. His pulse heightened and his palms grew damp. Now that it had come to it… he was sure this was the way, but… what if he mishandled it. The temptation to make an excuse, to escape and put off telling the necessary and intimidating truth, gave him a new appreciation for the tangled worries of being Emrys. "What did Gaius tell you? If you don't mind me asking, my lord."

"It was a load of nonsense." Arthur drank deeply. "He believes I'll be a good king, and a better one without him here. Gone to seek his fortunes elsewhere, never see him again, don't look for him. Drivel."

"And why…" Mordred's throat was dry; he wished for a cup of water, himself. "Why do you not accept that as truth? And let him go…"

Uther Pendragon, as he understood it, had considered himself betrayed by a sorceress, and declared all magic evil and a corrupting influence, as a reaction. What if Arthur Pendragon did the same? And maybe Merlin as Emrys had foreseen this, and abandoned Camelot like a rat from a sinking… no. No, he couldn't think like that. He had to have hope, in Merlin, in himself, in destiny.

"Because Merlin only said foolish, noble things like that when he was getting ready to do something stupid and dangerous and mysterious, without explaining why," Arthur said. "He left like this, in the middle of the night, without talking to anyone –" He checked himself, and raised his goblet to Mordred. "Without talking to anyone who would stop him, because… if it was truly as simple as he made it sound, we wouldn't have stopped him. And Gaius would be happy for him, instead of…"

Mordred understood. The court physician, when he wasn't watching Mordred with close suspicion, looked ten years older than last week. Anxious, and weary of being anxious.

"So." The king set his cup down with an emphatic clatter, crossed his arms over his chest and his boots at the ankle, leaning back against the side table. "Why did Merlin leave Camelot? Why did he tell _you_?"

Mordred shrugged in his chainmail, pulling at the collar of his gambeson underneath, pulling at his skin to expose the secret long hidden.

"When you brought me back to the druids, when you saved my life as a child," he said. "You asked my name, and I told you. Since Ismere, I have wondered if you remembered… who I was. Where I came from."

He watched Arthur's eyes study the black-green triskelion swirl inked onto his skin. The king's expression didn't change; he didn't so much as shift in his relaxed position. When Arthur met his eyes again, Mordred deliberately readjusted his clothing and armor – the mark and reminder of his chosen loyalty, his decided destiny.

"I remembered," Arthur said steadily. "I'm also aware that not all druids have or regularly use magic."

The hint of a question. The possibility of excuse, the offer of trust. Mordred recognized that he could deny his magic, and Arthur would accept his word on the matter. He appreciated that – but had Merlin ever seen the same? or had Arthur truly never seen more than the young servant who'd washed his socks?

"I do," he said. "I have magic."

Arthur let the stillness calm the confession hanging between them, and that fact alone settled Mordred's nerves and heart, firmed his conviction. Then the king said, "And have you used it for anything since you returned to Camelot with us from Ismere?"

Mordred shook his head. Glad that Arthur did not ask, what he might have used it for in the past, _against_ Camelot. And it also wasn't, did _Merlin_ use Mordred's magic for anything…

"If you as a druid can let my bygones be bygones," Arthur said, with a sincere gravity that struck at Mordred's soul. "How can I do less? I believe you, and I'm glad you told me. But since you haven't broken your oath as a knight or the laws of the kingdom, there need nothing be done, and we continue as before."

Mordred took a breath. "I beg your pardon, my lord…" _Literally_. "But, not so. Something does need to be done. The laws that restrict the spirits and skills of my kind are unjust. I come before you as representative, to beg that you give us freedom, not death. Equality, not prejudice."

Arthur sighed. Closed his eyes and dropped his head to squeeze the bridge of his nose. Tipped his head back and adjusted the burden of kingship and judgment on his shoulders as if the weight was palpable and uncomfortable.

"I have to admit," he said. "There is hypocrisy in allowing druids in Camelot, but not their magic. If we admit that magic is not in and of itself evil, or corruptive – then it must needs follow that not all magic should be banned. But this… is a question to be examined at another time. I'm not ready to start overturning my father's laws."

Mordred seized his courage, that it might not flee, and him with it. "Forgive me, sire, but when will you be? Many of your people have suffered and died, waiting for your reign and hoping for change. Hoping for hope."

Wrath was kindling a different sort of fire in the king's blue eyes, now. He pushed himself upright, uncrossing his arms and beginning to stride across the room. "You overstep your bounds, Sir Knight," Arthur warned him. "It is not your place to –"

 _It is exactly my place._ As Emrys, it was no one else's place to challenge the Once and Future King on magic. And, Arthur had made no move toward any weapon, as if he felt that Mordred having magic and arguing about it, was still no threat to him. Had Merlin not seen how _close_ Arthur was?

Mordred answered, "Whose place is it, then? Merlin's?"

"Merlin would –" Arthur paused, halfway across the room, just behind the chair at the foot of his table. "We began this conversation speaking of Merlin. What does my manservant have to do with your magic?"

"He has magic, too."

Arthur stared at him blankly. "Merlin? Has magic? That's… impossible. He said…"

Mordred shook his head. "He does. I've seen it."

He wanted to say more, to rush on persuasively, but wasn't sure which words to use. Or if silence and patience might be more effective? He wondered how many times Merlin had thought the very same thing.

"This was a recent realization, I take it," Arthur said, sounding a bit grim. "Which is why he talked to you about it? And the idiot decided to banish himself rather than tell me. _There can be no place for magic in Camelot_ , indeed. Didn't he trust that I would deal fairly with him, that I would –"

"No," Mordred said – then realized that Arthur would not understand. "I mean, yes, he believes you to be a fair king, and he trusts you. But his magic - I saw it when I was here as a child."

Arthur put out his hand to grip the top of the chair. His eyes shifted away from Mordred and unfocused. His mouth dropped slightly open as he inhaled, deeply and slowly. Mordred could read part of his reaction – _That long?_ – but could not readily guess at other thoughts occurring to the king.

"It was powerful and controlled, even then," he continued. "Merlin is a warlock – his magic was born with him. His destiny also, many of my people believed…"

That word caught Arthur's attention. "Destiny?" he said, with a frown and expression of resisting acceptance.

"He was known as Emrys, to my people," Mordred said. "The most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth. Destined guide and protector of the Once and Future King."

Arthur's knuckles whitened. "He called me that."

Mordred gave him a bow of respect, gratitude, and admiration. "And so you are, my lord. Which is why you must reconsider your father's laws. Free my people and accept the good there is in magic – that is your destiny."

Arthur huffed cynically. "That is my destiny," he repeated. Then shook his head. "Mordred, my friend, you are very young, and perhaps –"

"Ask Gaius," Mordred blurted. There was no offense in being reminded of his youth, but it would be rude to remind Arthur, he had experience in parts of the world where the king of Camelot had never been, and never could go. "Gaius knows."

The king studied him narrowly for a moment, then strode to his chamber door and yanked it open to issue an order to one of his guards. "Fetch the court physician to my chamber. Immediately."

Mordred subtly shifted into the resting-attentive stance of the guards. The king left the door ajar and began to pace about the room, eyes on the floor and scowl on his face. Half a dozen times he stopped dead for no reason that Mordred could see, shook his head or muttered to himself or both, then continued. Sometimes crossing his arms in a hunched self-protective attitude, sometimes carding his fingers through his hair in frustration, til he looked in desperate need of a manservant's tending.

At least, Mordred thought, he hadn't lost his temper, or questioned Mordred's loyalty or motivation. And he also had to admit, if he'd been Merlin, revealing these secrets, making this claim, bringing this plea, Arthur might well have reacted more emotionally than logically. Hadn't Mordred himself done the same, years ago?

Finally the court physician pushed the door open, raising his head to take in Mordred, standing silently attendant, and Arthur, bracing himself at the window casement. Gaius nodded to himself, and closed the door again, unasked.

Arthur turned at the sound of the latch. "Gaius," he said, without preamble. "Was Merlin a sorcerer? Did he have magic?"

Gaius lifted a stern eyebrow at Mordred.

Who explained in quiet self-defense, "Merlin told me I might tell His Majesty about his magic."

The old man humphed. "What else did he tell you to say?"

"That he was sorry." Mordred darted a glance at Arthur, who watched Gaius' shoulders slump, as if that was the ultimate proof.

"It's true, then," the king stated. "The whole time he was here."

"From the moment he arrived," Gaius said. "And saved my life. He startled me coming in, and my balcony rail broke. I fell, and his magic caught me, without even a bruise to show for it. And before we'd made our introductions, when I might have been anyone who'd report him to your father. And then, you know what would have happened."

Arthur swallowed and turned away to pace another series of moments. "Why'd he come here, all those years ago?"

"His mother sent him. I was to train him to control and hide his magic, so it wouldn't get him killed."

"Well done," the king muttered sardonically, his back to them. "Eight _years_ and more… Why'd he stay?"

"He believed he'd found his destiny, the purpose for having magic like he had," Gaius said, folding his hands together with dignity. "To protect you."

Arthur huffed and rubbed a hand distractedly over his eyes. "And the druids, they had a name for him? A name for me? A job for us?"

"According to prophecy," the old man said, with another glance at Mordred. "He is Emrys, and you are called the once and future king. Together you will unite Albion and bring about the golden age of peace and magic."

"Peace and magic," Arthur said sarcastically. "And unite Albion. Is that all. Do I have a choice in the matter? Must I do this whether I believe it's right or wrong?"

"You always have a choice," Gaius said, sounding tired, and Mordred thought of his own wrong choices. Of Merlin's, right or wrong. "But sire… would you choose differently?"

"Peace between the kingdoms, yes," Arthur said. "Magic… maybe. But why does that mean that Merlin had to leave? I'm furious with him, and I'm sure I don't know the half of what he's done."

"He's saved you, and the kingdom, time and again," Gaius argued.

"And run away before I could demand explanation," Arthur countered. "Is he a brave man, or a coward?"

" _Don't_ ," Gaius said, so fiercely Mordred held his breath. "Do not ever question his courage, not in my presence. You will never know what that boy suffered for you –"

"Every day, and twice on Sundays?" Arthur interrupted sardonically, as if he couldn't quite believe, even yet. "Tell me, did he ever use his magic about the citadel? For his chores, for his excuses, to stop me guessing why his stories were so incredibly stupid, or stupidly incredible?"

Gaius remained silent, rocking slightly in place and glaring, and it was as good as a _yes_. Mordred wasn't sure whether to chuckle or sigh.

Arthur cursed in exasperation, swinging away to stalk around the table. "If it wasn't a lack of courage, what was it? He had so little faith in me, he thought I could never forgive him? Never learn to trust him again? I'm a fair king and he trusts me – except when it comes to magic, or him?"

He pinned Mordred with his gaze unexpectedly, and Mordred faltered. Because Arthur really was taking this surprisingly well. Maybe due to Merlin's absence? In that case Merlin could easily have gone somewhere temporarily – could have told them where he was going, and waited for word, whether Arthur wanted him to stay away, or come back. But he didn't…

"Merlin wouldn't leave on a whim," Gaius said, "or because his feelings were hurt, because he had a bad day and entertained doubts about your reaction to him, or your acceptance of his service. I've seen those days, and he stayed in spite of them. He left like this because he had a good reason for doing so, and if he didn't tell anyone where to find him, he doesn't want to be found. I believe we should respect his wishes –"

"How can I know that he had a good reason, or what that reason was," the king said, dangerously calm, "unless I can ask him myself? How is he supposed to be Emrys and protect and guide me if he isn't even here?"

"Ah," Mordred said, "sire?" Almost he quailed before Arthur's golden wrath. "We performed a ritual, before he left, and he passed his destiny to me."

Silence. Gaius pressed his lips together, but didn't look surprised. Maybe Merlin had stated his intentions for the magic in his note, which detail Gaius did not reveal to the king.

"So you're Emrys now?" Arthur demanded. Mordred nodded. The king flung out his arms, turning to stride away. "Wonderful. I've got a boy-knight who isn't a druid and doesn't use it anymore, to protect and guide me through the damn maze of magic."

Mordred looked at his boots. He supposed, if he had the permission and freedom to practice… Once again he felt the weight of the responsibility Merlin had left him, and it was nigh unbearable. How could he possibly… and how often had Merlin felt like this?

"I'm sorry." The proximity of Arthur's voice startled him; even more so the hand on his shoulder. "I shouldn't have said that - I'm sure you'll do you best. I've come to expect nothing less from you. Honesty and hard work. I daresay Geoffrey kept some records from my father's early reign, and the rulers before him. That'll be a start."

"My lord?" Gaius said questioningly.

Arthur acknowledged him with a look, but didn't answer. "I'm not going to let Merlin just walk away. I think I have the right to shout at him a bit, first. So I'll look into the Ban laws, and Mordred – tomorrow you take Gwaine and show him where you last saw Merlin, tell him anything that might indicate a direction. Leon's already had patrols looking, which means he's deliberately avoided the regular routes. I'll have someone ride to Ealdor again –" he looked at Gaius, who shook his head.

"It won't be that easy, sire."

"Regardless. He can hide for eight and a half years if no one's looking for him to have magic – let's see how long he can hide when all of us are looking."

Mordred couldn't help smiling at the king's determination. Even if he was angry, and wanted to express that, Mordred didn't think for a minute that Arthur would physically harm Merlin. It would be good if he could be persuaded to return; Mordred would greatly appreciate his support in this destiny. Maybe they could share it.

Gaius, conversely, looked more grim. "You should lift the Ban if you come to believe it is the right thing to do," he said, "not because you mean to lure Merlin back. If he doesn't come of his own accord, leave him alone. No good can come of hunting him."

"What's the matter, Gaius," Arthur goaded the old man faintly. "You don't want him to come back?"

"That's not… I trust that he's chosen to do what's best for you, for all of us."

"And has he never made the wrong choice before?" Arthur challenged. "Why does he get to decide what's best for me? Evidently he isn't even Emrys, anymore. And I'm still the king."

Watching Arthur, Mordred couldn't help but believe he would succeed in finding Merlin. Eventually.

* * *

 **A/N: The spell, as clumsy as it is and as wrong as I probably am, is aimed to mean something like,** "Through my might/strength/power, and our blood, and the magic of this (fire-breathing) dragon… We change/barter/reciprocate/lend this breath/soul/spirit/mind (good or bad, angel or demon) fate/chance/fortune/destiny/phenomenon/transaction. **And yes, I think each of these word-nuances are important…**

 **Also, this isn't the end; To Kill the King is split into two chapters. Next one up fairly soon…**


	10. To Kill the King (2)

**To Kill the King (part 2)**

He sat in the darkest, smelliest, warmest corner of the tavern, boots pulled up on the seat of his chair, threadbare cloak pulled around him for the extra warmth. It wasn't even winter yet, not really, even if there had been snow in the air in the afternoon, but since his neck was bare – the better to hide, so exposed – he always felt cold.

Dipping his fingers into the swill in his cup that evidently sold as ale in this border town, he traced two symbols on the top of the table that barred and sheltered him from the rest of the noisy, smelly room.

One for _peace_. He couldn't remember, if there was a brawl and things got out of hand, whether it would be Mercia's soldiers or Gawant's coming to break things up, but he didn't want either. Even without the distinctive kerchief around his throat, he didn't want to draw notice – and so, the second rune to pass casual attention right over him without stopping.

His fingers were cold, and chapped, and thin. He rubbed the symbols till they dried, then dipped into the mug again. He probably should drink it, no matter the poor quality. That and the long-gone stale bread-crust were all the supper he was going to get. Probably the only breakfast tomorrow, too.

" _Camelot_ …"

He heard, out of all the conversation. And then…

"King Arthur. Nay, you've got it all wrong. The king didna massacre the lot of sorcerers, he pardoned them. Magic is free in Camelot –"

"Magic is free in Camelot," the farmer's bearded companion scoffed, as they headed for the tavern-keeper's serving-counter. "It's a rumor, and you're the one that's got it all wrong. It's a trap, I tell ye, and good thing too, for those folk who hide their damn magic and pretend to be law-abidin' citizens…"

He pulled his hand back from the cup, yanking the hood of his cloak tighter over the uncut hair at the back of his neck, drawing the material up to his ears to muffle the words.

Rumors, always rumors. The law was changed – no, it was a ploy because the new king had started a new purge. There were sorcerers in Camelot's court – oh, yes, because they'd infiltrated to make war on everyone else, now.

He tried not to let the uncertainty bother him. The rest would be resolved in time, as long as there weren't rumors of King Arthur's death… and there wouldn't be, as long as he kept well away.

It had been harder than he'd thought. He couldn't settle to one occupation in one place, for fear of being somehow discovered – for his magic, for his identity, by friends or by strangers. Better to keep moving and remain always and everywhere overlooked, but. It was hard to earn or scrounge a living, that way, and it never stopped him thinking.

Sometimes he wondered if they all missed him as badly as he missed them. A hole bored through heart and soul, dripping memories constantly and maybe time would heal it, but it hadn't yet. No one to talk to or laugh with or rely on. Sometimes he hoped that they'd forgotten him – Gwen and Arthur had each other, the knights as a group of friends and comrades, and Gaius needed a new assistant anyway – and were happy.

Every day he woke and trudged through a gray ache of mistrustful strangers and unfamiliar towns. Lost in the mountains, scoured from the moors, drowned in the dripping valleys. Every night was a grim triumph, that Arthur had lived one more day, in Camelot, enjoying everything that he'd left behind and couldn't ever have again.

Which was good. Another sacrifice he was willing to make for his king and his kingdom. Mordred as Emrys would tell Arthur about magic, and Arthur would eventually accept and proclaim freedom for the oppressed. And as long as he remained exile, the king could take hurt or fall ill – but he wouldn't die.

Unless somehow he caused Arthur's death by his absence.

The thought caused nightmares worse than the vision given him by the Vatis. It wouldn't be on a battlefield strewn with dead and skewered with abandoned blades, soaked with blood and drawing carrion crows… but now he _didn't_ know, when and where.

The door opened on a gust of cold wind, bleak darkness losing another cloaked figure to the firelight of the tavern. No one else took much notice; he watched the figure press backward on the door to latch it, and pause to catch breath or look for acquaintances in the crowd. Then the man pushed upright and strode for the counter where the tavern-keeper served up drinks and dinner.

Five steps. Only five, and the hood still up and the draggled cloak-edge obscuring all but the bootheels.

But his mouth was dry, fearing recognition. Longing for recognition so badly he was seeing impossible friends. He ducked his head to smear tear-tracks on his sleeves before the salt water could wash the grime from the rest of his face.

And looked back up, right into Gwaine's self-satisfied smirk.

Hood down, cloak flung back from one shoulder to reveal the roughest of traveling clothes rather than bright mail and blood-and-gold livery. He leaned forward to set the cup in his hand down on the table, stripped off his gloves to toss next to it, and swung around a vacant chair to straddle.

"You look like hell," Gwaine said cheerfully.

Astonishment hadn't yet cleared. He didn't know whether to grouch sourly to be left alone, or weep like a grateful child that he wasn't.

"Congratulations," his friend continued, reclaiming the cup and tipping it to him in salutation. He drank deeply and sighed in appreciation and relaxation. "I thought for sure we'd have caught up with you after one month, and it's been five. Have you been using magic to cover your tracks?"

His heart double-bumped wildly at the word, as it always did, and his mouth was too dry to speak. What was known, what was meant – should he lie, should he admit –

"Yeah, we all know. Mordred said you told him he could tell." One of the tavern-keeper's daughters brought a steaming plate of potatoes and some kind of gravy-smothered meat; Gwaine received it with a smile of thanks and promptly – surprisingly – ignored her to turn his attention right back to Merlin. "Was that accurate?"

The permission to tell, or the magic? Merlin shifted slightly forward, though he kept his knees up.

"All?" he said hoarsely.

"Well, not _all_ ," Gwaine amended his exaggeration, picking up fork and knife; Merlin was salivating involuntarily at the smell. "Gwen knows, and a handful of our knights."

"And?" Merlin whispered. Expectant, terrified.

"Well…" Gwaine chewed and swallowed, twiddling his fork between his fingers. "Percival's seen legal magic used in other kingdoms before, so've I. Mordred, obviously. Gwen cried, and Leon stomped around angrily for a day or so. Or was it that Leon cried and Gwen stomped around?..."

A chuckle bubbled painfully up through his throat, and brought tears to his eyes again. Gwaine ignored him rubbing them away.

"Elyan just waited to see what Arthur and Gwen were going to decide…"

"Arthur." Merlin dropped his feet to the floor – the hole that had worn through his sole would not be visible to Gwaine, then – and leaned forward so far his hand landed on Gwaine's wrist. "How is he?"

Gwaine looked at him a moment, then shoved the plate between them, folding his fork into Merlin's fingers and stabbing a boiled potato with the knife.

"Gwen finally found a manservant he'd tolerate – and he needed one." Gwaine put the potato in his mouth and pointed the knife at Merlin briefly. "Eat while I'm talking. Mordred's been run ragged, and Geoffrey's bald now except for his eyebrows, pulling his hair out because Arthur was relentless on the topic of magic. He wanted to read _everything_ before he made any changes."

Merlin couldn't help a dry little snicker at the thought of the court recorder bald – and couldn't quite deny the pang of bittersweet regret. "But he did? Change the laws, lift the bans?"

"At long last. Eat, dammit, I know you want to, it's written all over the bones of your face."

Smiling was a pleasurable ache. And then he found that chewing wasn't a necessity with overdone potatoes, and he swallowed as quickly as he could fork the mealy bits into his mouth.

"The proclamation's gone out to all his allies, and if I had to guess, that's all gone more smoothly than expected, too." Gwaine sawed hunks off the slab of meat, and shoved two-thirds of it emphatically to Merlin's side of the plate. "But you and I know how it is – ruling is never _easy_."

"But he's happy?" Merlin said around the first tough, chewy piece of… mutton? "And Gwen? And Gaius?"

"I don't think… any of them really realized how much you did for them, til they didn't have you." Gwaine crammed a piece of the meat in his mouth and shook his hair back, studying Merlin as he chewed. "Gaius is on his third trial-apprentice. None of them are you. You should come back."

He almost choked, and swallowed hard. "Gwaine, I can't…"

"Yes, you can. You really can. You're not existentially illegal anymore. Gaius wants you back. Gwen wants to cry on your neck and Arthur wants to yell a lot and then cry on your neck, and Mordred might stop looking like a ghost with too much work to do, if he wasn't the only magic-user in the citadel."

Sometimes Merlin felt guilty about that, what he'd done – what they'd done – without giving the former druid the full explanation of _why_. But if Mordred knew, he'd surely prefer being Emrys, to being Arthur's Bane, even with the unknown threat of Morgana's murderous hatred looming over all of them.

"And the rest of Camelot can go hang, if they don't like the fact that you've had magic and hid it, all those years," Gwaine finished. "And me? I can see you dying to ask, and you're just too polite. As far as I'm concerned, you're still the first and best friend I've ever had."

He couldn't bear the earnest moisture in the rough knight's eyes, and ducked his head, retreating from the folk left on the edge of the plate. "You don't understand," he whispered.

"Damn right I don't. So enlighten me."

"Once in the woods, you ran across an old sorcerer, one you thought had killed Uther, and you tried to arrest him. And I told you, if Arthur saw me, he would be in grave danger."

Gwaine sat back in his chair also. "Are you… saying that was _you_? What did you -"

"I cannot come back to Camelot, ever." Merlin pressed all of his pain and regret and loneliness into a hard edge, and turned it on his friend. "Gwaine, please believe me this time when I tell you, if you don't leave me alone, there is every chance that I will kill the king. If I don't keep my distance, and plenty of it, he'll die. Somehow. Sooner or later."

"How can you possibly know something like that?" Gwaine said, exasperated. "You put up with the man for almost ten years, and he's gotten much better, everyone says so –"

"I do know it," Merlin hissed, clenching his fist and thumping it on the table, and it all hurt. "Look, if it was up to me…" For a moment he couldn't breathe, thinking of _home_ , and all it meant. Who it meant. "But it isn't, not anymore. I can't. I won't."

Gwaine grimaced, but lifted his hands in surrender. "Well. I did think I had the best chance of convincing you, though Gaius said it wouldn't happen, and we should leave you alone."

The food sat sullen as a stone in his belly. "I –" he whispered. "I'm a danger to Arthur. You can't ask me to…"

"A danger to Arthur, but not to me?" Gwaine clarified with a singly-raised brow and a grin. "What if I –"

"No, you've got to stay with Arthur, and protect him," Merlin said immediately. "You're a knight, you swore an oath."

"And if we stop following you and trying to persuade you, then you could settle somewhere and try to be happy? I could drop by now and again, at least?"

The suggestion was new and tantalizing, and made Merlin think. He could still… he could still see Gwaine, maybe Gaius sometimes, or Gwen, or… If the knights could help keep him and Arthur apart, maybe –

"Are you staying here tonight?" Merlin asked, suddenly a bit desperate to prolong this unexpected gift of company. "The two beds in my room are taken, but there's still floor-space for half-rate."

"No, I've got to… do things. See a man about a horse." Gwaine glanced behind him toward the door.

Merlin wondered at the cause of his hesitation, because there were stables here, after all. As poor quality as the tavern, but adequate, he thought. "There is another tavern in town, it's nicer – costs more…"

"Those proclamations, you see, I'm on my way to… and I want to make another couple of hours before I stop for the night." Gwaine grinned disarmingly. "It was just my good luck to stop here to eat, and find you. You're staying, though? Maybe when I come back through, we could have more time…"

"Yeah." Merlin touched the fork with his forefinger, not meeting his friend's eyes.

"All right. You take care, now." Gwaine reached to gently squeeze his forearm through his sleeve, then looked down at his grip. "And feed yourself, for the love of Camelot. And wash at least once a week."

Merlin huffed. Both of those things cost more than he had, readily, since living off the land wasn't really feasible anymore, this close to winter. And magic held little meaning, little appeal for him, these days, as if he didn't deserve its benefit, if he wasn't using it for his king.

"I'll see you soon, all right?" Gwaine rose, picking up his gloves.

Merlin ducked his head in a nod. As soon as the knight turned to make his way to the door, he snatched up the plate, scraping up the last of the gravy with his fingers and licking them. And set the plate down again in time to meet Gwaine's smile and wave as he opened the door to leave.

As soon as the door was latched behind him, Merlin left his chair in the darkest, smelliest corner, skirted the raucous company, and took the stairs two at a time. The room where he paid a pittance – too much – to sleep on the floor sheltered from the weather, was the second on the right. Empty, as the two men paying for the use of the beds were still downstairs, but a candle had been left burning on the wash-table.

Merlin fell to his knees to begin rolling up the patched blanket that was his, positioned to claim the space, retrieving the worn supply bag that doubled as his pillow.

Something about Gwaine's story didn't ring wholly true. This border town was on no one's way to anyone who might expect a messenger from Camelot. _We should leave you alone_ – and then he did, after a quarter-hour's conversation. To travel another couple of hours in the cold and dark, rather than having a second mug and a roof over his head with Merlin.

No. He didn't know what Gwaine had in mind, but he wasn't going to wait to find out.

Floorboards unforgiving under his knees, he leaned on the roll of his blanket, small and hard, and closed his eyes to breathe deeply through his nose. It was a blessing to know even that much, about his friends, his mentor, and his king. It wasn't near enough, but it would have to be. He wanted more of Gwaine's company – but he had to be wary of indulging his loneliness because he had to guard Arthur from himself, and this was the only way he could be sure of that.

Where to now? Maybe he should hunt Morgana more purposefully instead of just blocking her at Camelot's borders with magic like he'd been doing, unless the uniting-in-evil part of Mordred's prophecy was Merlin's now, too - but then…

The air stirred and the candle fluttered as the door opened. Merlin, embarrassed to be caught so by one of the strangers, shifted to turn his back and busied himself with tying his blanket to his pack. Behind him, the door clicked shut and of course the stranger was _watching_ him and –

"Merlin."

Not quite a question. Not quite an exclamation. A confusion of emotion quivered through the one husky word, his name.

For a single second Merlin's body froze, hunched over his meager possessions, fingers curved like claws. Then he spun so fast he lost his balance – and tried to scramble away, before running his shoulder and the back of his head into one leg of the wash-table. The candle clattered and rocked, sending shadow and light lilting over the motionless king.

Arthur leaned back against the inside of the closed door. Dressed as Gwaine was, in nondescript clothes, brown and cream and cloak, except that he wore his sword-belt. And gripped the hilt of the weapon at his hip with his left hand, thumb up toward the pommel. For reassurance, Merlin knew – that told him more than the carefully-blank expression, the set jaw.

"You shouldn't be here," Merlin said, his heart pounding. This was ten times worse than watching Arthur and Mordred spar on the training field. Any moment – any moment he could…

Causing a death accidentally was still causing a death.

"Neither should you," Arthur returned. "What – Merlin, _what_ are you doing? Gwaine said you looked like –"

"I told Gaius," Merlin said, trying to be calm and hold very, very still, "I told Mordred, I told Gwaine - I can't be near you. It's not safe. Please – please leave. Leave me alone. For always."

Arthur didn't leave. He only breathed, and watched Merlin. "Magic, all this time."

"Yes." Merlin lifted his chin.

"Your devotion to destiny is commendable," Arthur said, letting a bit of sarcasm creep into his voice. "It's too bad you didn't stay to see magic returned to Camelot."

Each word tore a stripe in Merlin's heart. All he'd ever wanted and bled and cried and waited and lost for, right there in one sentence from his king's lips.

"Mordred did a good job, then," Merlin said, dry-mouthed. "He told you. About his magic."

"It wasn't because of Mordred that this happened," Arthur said.

"No, I know," Merlin hurried to amend. "I know it's because of you. Because of who you are and who you're meant to be. I always knew you could do this, have the courage to recognize right from wrong, and fight prejudice just like all those creatures that attacked us."

"Who I am," Arthur repeated, setting his jaw in preparation to say something that didn't come naturally to his expression, "has a lot to do with you, Merlin. It wasn't Mordred who gave me courage and hope when I needed it, all those years, questioned my decisions and opinions when I needed it. It was you."

The king took a deep breath; Merlin couldn't breathe at all.

"I still need that from you. I still want that from you. Camelot is not the same without… your clumsiness and disrespect and… optimism. My reign – I can believe in myself, that it is possible to do what I want and what I dream, with you there telling me it's possible and believing it, too." Pushing away from the door, Arthur took two steps toward Merlin, hand outstretched.

Merlin cursed himself for listening, for allowing the temptation. Abandoning his pack and blanket, he shouldered past the wash-table and backed to the wall, pulling himself to his feet with his elbow on the window-sill.

"No, stay back!" he insisted. "Arthur, you know I believe in you and I always will, but I can't come back, I can't. You've got your destiny, and you've got Mordred, and it's better if I stay away."

"Because you gave your destiny to Mordred," Arthur said, as if he were trying to understand. "Because you didn't think _you_ could accomplish it anymore, but Merlin – you _have_. You've done it. We've done it. Mordred can be Emrys, that's fine. I don't care about Emrys, I care about you. You can come back, even without a destiny."

Merlin shook his head, eyes blurring with tears. He didn't want to tell this part, didn't want to have to say it aloud.

"You wondered, didn't you, why I told you not to agree to what the Disir asked of you, to welcome magic and regain Mordred's life. Did you ever wonder why Mordred was still alive even though you turned down the offer?"

Arthur straightened, cocking his head a bit, contemplatively. "I just thought –"

"When I gave my destiny to Mordred," Merlin went on, heedless of the king's answer and thoughts. "I took his on me. Because I realized, in trying to protect you, I betrayed myself and my kin, and you. What I said was _wrong_ , because I was trying _not_ to save his life – and that wasn't the first time. Mordred's life was your _punishment_ for rejecting magic that day."

"What – do you mean?" Arthur said unsteadily.

"I was told, if he lived then I couldn't protect you."

"But you did," Arthur started to say.

Merlin wasn't finished. "I was told his destiny was to bring about your doom. That he would unite in evil with Morgana–"

"But he didn't," Arthur pointed out.

"I was told, if I had the chance to kill him, then I must not fail." Merlin thought briefly, if Arthur demanded to know _who_ , then he'd tell him. And then maybe Arthur would leave him forever, to hear he'd both freed the great dragon, and let him escape.

"That's horrible," Arthur told him, with a look of distaste.

"It is! And what was worse, I couldn't ever finish it. I couldn't ever… kill him, even for something he would one day do. Even for you."

"I'm glad," Arthur declared. "Because if you were the sort of person who could kill a child or a friend because of their potential to do evil, you would not be the man who's been beside me all these years, provoking me into being a better person and king. You couldn't have taught me anything about fairness and justice."

Merlin sagged against the window. Maybe that failure wasn't such a failure after all, then.

"I couldn't…" He swallowed, trying to moisten throat and mouth for further speech. "Couldn't come between you and Mordred all day and all night. Every day and every night. Couldn't watch him and watch you and prevent him someday killing you." He shook his head. "I tried. I couldn't. But I _can_ watch myself, all day and all night, every day and every night. And keep the man who's going to kill you someday, as far away as I can for as long as possible."

Arthur breathed, clenching and unclenching his fist at the hilt of his sword. "So you now believe it's your destiny to kill me. And because you _don't_ want that _so much_ , you'll starve and run and hide and beg. For the rest of your life."

"For the rest of _your_ life," Merlin said in a low voice.

"I asked Gaius, what if I didn't want my destiny. Would I be forced into it, even if I thought it was wrong. He said…" Arthur paused and took a deliberate step forward. "You always have a choice."

"Don't, Arthur, please," Merlin said desperately. "Stay away from me." He glanced away, out the window, gauging distance and obstacle to the ground and his escape, and Arthur took another step.

"Merlin, you don't have to –"

All ye gods above, it was going to happen right here and now. Arthur's death, somehow, because Merlin had been weak and stupid again.

"Stay _back_!" he screamed, raising his hand to _push_.

Arthur flew backward, slamming into the wall beside the door. Merlin's magic trapped him there; it didn't want to, fighting against his control and he squeezed and forced it as he sobbed and wrenched the window open. Swinging one leg over the sill, he bent under the raised pane. If he could just hold Arthur in place, he could get away, and then -

" _Mer…lin_!"

Arthur's boots were two inches above the floor, even when he didn't kick out. His hands grasped and scrabbled at his neck – and above that, his face was reddening. Eyes wide, mouth open to gasp for air – that wasn't coming.

Merlin's magic was killing Arthur. He was killing Arthur, trying to keep him away so he wouldn't kill him.

"No!" With a strangled shout, Merlin snatched the magic back, away.

Arthur landed with a jarring thud and slid down the wall, gulping painfully for air. Merlin dashed across the floor to him, landing on his knees and trying to clear his friend's throat of any impediment to breath – cloak-string, shirt-ties. And there was never any fear in Arthur's blue eyes as he gasped for breath, never any blame. Merlin couldn't bear it.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He snatched his hands back and curled over them, resting his forehead on Arthur's chest, trying to inhale through his panic, himself.

And, wonder of wonders, felt Arthur's fingers slide into the hair grown long on the back of his neck.

"Don't – _don't_. All these years, you've made the choices," Arthur rasped, dragged in another lungful of air. "I am king, Merlin. It's my right and responsibility. And I choose to have you with me, no matter what your destiny is, now. I trust you. I know you'll do your best to keep me safe. And whatever happens, someday, I'll have you _with_ me that day, too."

"Arthur…" Merlin tried to resist, tried to be strong and hold to his resolve, to absent and separate himself. But see where that had led him – after only a handful of months, he'd threatened and almost ended his king's life. Tears flowed, though he kept his gasps for breath silent, and Arthur didn't push him away.

What wouldn't he give to be able to relinquish the very thing Arthur claimed – the responsibility of decision. Could he do it? Could he relent and allow Arthur what the king wanted – what he also wanted, so badly?

As he struggled with himself, fighting selfishness – or was it selfish to deny Arthur the choice? – he felt his king's heartbeat under his forehead. Steady and strong, calming and continuing.

Continuing… It was a luxury to feel that, and it didn't stop.

And it didn't stop.

Merlin woke sprawled in the corner by the door, two blankets over him and one of the bed-pillows under his head. He lifted himself onto one elbow on the hard floorboards and blinked at the dawn peeking in at the window.

Gwaine was facedown on the further bed, head pillowed on his arms and bootless feet at the head, covered by a pair of cloaks. Briefly Merlin wondered exactly how the knight had discovered him in this tavern, in this town, and supposed he'd hear the story later, whether he wanted to or not.

In the closer bed, Arthur. Awake and propped up against the wall, watching Merlin. Alive after all night in the same room, and in the light of a new day, Merlin couldn't find the panic that his friend's death was imminent by reason of proximity to him. Arthur gave him a self-satisfied half-smile, as if he knew what Merlin was thinking, and that he'd won.

"Morning," he said, with a familiar and well-beloved sardonic note in his voice. "Time to rise and shine."

…..*….. …..*….. …*… …*….. …..*…..

The court physician of Camelot sat hunched over his desk, searching the last page of the last tome in the last hour of the day, by the light of the last candle.

Nothing, and nothing.

He wasn't sure why he still thought he might find something like a solution, when his fully-capable apprentice had already combed the lore thoroughly.

Something in his chest clenched round his heart – a familiar and steadily-worsening pain – and he gulped for air that felt useless as his heart thudded like a fist on a door. Death asking for entry; his soul begging for freedom.

It wasn't his time yet, though. He'd made vows to his king, and he would see them through. Damn destiny.

Lifting his reading glass into place to help old age's failing eyesight, he prepared to scour the runic sentences one more time.

A moment later the old wooden door swung precipitously open, framing the court sorcerer in darkness – black hair and black tunic and jacket, embroidered in silver thread with the Pendragon emblem. One look at his face told the physician everything he needed to know.

"The king?" he said.

The sorcerer nodded gravely. "The sleeping spells aren't working anymore, nor double the dose of the tonic you made for the pain this afternoon."

The physician rose, making gestures for the other to quiet his tone. "You'll wake my apprentice."

"Too late," a younger voice sounded, preceding the clatter of ungainly limbs down the three stairs from the apprentice's back bedroom. He yawned and stretched simultaneously, blinking serious in a moment. "Is it the king?"

"It is," the sorcerer answered, but the young apprentice didn't so much as pause for breath.

"What about the prince?"

"Retired to his chamber for the night, hours ago," the sorcerer said.

"He's said his goodbyes along with goodnight for the last week," the physician reassured his apprentice. "Let him sleep. He'll need it, come morning."

"And me, I think," the apprentice said. "I'll go to him. He shouldn't be alone, even if he is sleeping." Careless of the fact that he only wore sleeping trousers and a thin shirt unlaced at the throat, socks without boots on his feet, the young man slipped past the sorcerer in the doorway and disappeared.

Something about his words and his devotion made the physician smile, and blink away tears – and catch the edge of the desk breathlessly.

The court sorcerer noticed. "You, too?" he said with sorrowful disappointment. "You've got to hang on awhile longer, for the prince's sake." Prince regent for the last few years – and king on the morrow, it might be.

"You said the same thing," the physician told him, "after the queen's funeral last year. You and the king both made me swear." He crossed to the little wall-cabinet locked with magic, that contained the most dangerous or unstable of his materials and mixtures.

"Well it worked, didn't it. And it's still true."

The physician selected the lone bottle from the top shelf, opaque black with a cloth-wrapped glass stopper, and a handwritten label depicting a skinless skull for those who couldn't read. To ease the agony and hasten the inevitable passage of the dying.

"The prince has you," he returned. Hesitating, before gripping the bottle with an air of surrender, he tucked it into a pocket in the robe he wore over his shirt and trousers.

"He likes you better," the sorcerer countered, leaning into the room to retrieve the physician's walking staff from its place by the door.

The physician accepted it, and closed the door of his chamber behind him. Drew in a deep breath in the darkness of the tower stair, then conjured a flame to light their way, and a smile. "Everybody likes me better."

The sorcerer grunted wryly. "Except my wife."

"Kara doesn't like anybody but you," the physician responded. "And the children."

" _All_ the children," the sorcerer drawled, sarcastically fond.

But then the physician needed all his breath for walking – as quickly as he was able – and the sorcerer's hand at his elbow, twice on the stairs. He hadn't quite caught all of it to his service, when the sorcerer nodded to the king's guard, and let the two of them into the dim royal bedchamber.

The plump gray-haired woman seated at the king's bedside leaned back from wiping his face with a cool damp cloth, and rose, wordlessly passing them to allow for privacy. And if she didn't smile at the physician, at least her look was sympathetic.

"Thank you, Kara," the physician heard his friend the sorcerer say.

He made his way forward and lowered himself to the vacated chair. Hand pressed to his chest to calm the pain before the king noticed him and opened his blue eyes.

"Merlin…"

The court physician leaned onto the bed, finding his king's weak, wrinkled hand. "I'm here, Arthur. Is the pain very bad? Mordred told me that the spells and potions weren't working, but I've been through the books and I don't know what else to try, though we could –"

"Shut up, Merlin," the king whispered, a smile on thin gray lips – and he opened his eyes to look up at his friend. "It's not bad. Steady, and increasing – and no, this time nothing can be done. I don't want you to try anything else. I want… I want it to _stop_."

The court physician let his head drop. It had only been a few months, since they'd collectively noticed the king's headaches were increasing in frequency and duration. And then the blurred vision. And then the sporadic loss of memory and limb function.

"You brought it, didn't you?" the king added. "What we talked about?"

"I did." The physician took a deep breath. "Arthur, I didn't think it would be like this, when Mordred and I… when we did what we did, all those years ago. I wish I didn't have to –"

"I was thinking about that, too." The king blithely interrupted his friend; it was a long habit between the two. "About when we were young, and you ran away from Camelot –"

"I didn't run away," the physician objected.

"And I had to hunt you down and drag you back," the king continued, evidently enjoying the recollection. "Do you remember? How long ago was that, forty-two or forty-three years, now?"

"I remember," the physician said softly.

"Do you remember how absolutely paranoid you were for – months, I'm sure it was."

"I remember you all teased me relentlessly." The physician found it easy to smile. Slow passage of time had eased and calmed that particular fear, but hadn't erased it entirely. Though only he knew that – and now it seemed, his traded destiny had waited long enough for fulfillment. It seemed that Arthur – and Gaius, too, he remembered – had been right about choices affecting destiny.

"Those were good times," the king said, indulging his half-smile as his gaze wandered over the pattern of his bed-canopy.

The physician smiled too; of course Arthur would think that, about his personal torment. Though bringing it out in the light of day and laughing about it with their friends, probably had been of genuine use.

"Those were good times," he echoed.

"Over though now, for both of us," the king added, squeezing the hand that held his.

"That is the way of things. Time, and the world, and destiny." The physician's smile faltered as a spasm of pain wracked his king's form; he held tight and after a moment it passed, leaving the old warrior bone-pale and glistening with perspiration.

"I'm ready," the king gasped. "Aren't you, Merlin? Aren't you ready, too? We're the last. Everyone else gone – save Mordred."

The physician nodded. But Mordred was Emrys; if it ever was his time, it would be _long_ years hence. And he couldn't think of a more even-handed guardian of magic and destiny and legend.

"Stay awhile, though… for my son? Stay for him… You and I know –" The king's body seized again, and this time he couldn't remain silent, groaning helplessly in a way that twisted his friend's heart.

A tear slipped down the physician's face as he fumbled one-handed for the black bottle in his inner pocket.

"We know… we know, how hard it is. To lose a father. To gain such responsibility. Don't we."

"We do, Arthur," the physician murmured. "We know."

He wasn't quite strong enough to lift the king's head, but the contents of the bottle were known, expected and welcome. The king turned sideways on the pillow, pursing his lips to catch every drop, and swallowing with anticipated relief.

"It's very dark in here," the king murmured, relaxing back. "I can't see… where I'm supposed to… Merlin, can you make a light? Can you show me – one more time?"

It was a good thing the brilliant sphere of illumined magic required no words to form, anymore; the court physician was no longer capable of them. Magic reflected in the blue of the king's eyes, lighting his expression of ever-childlike wonder.

"Ah!" he sighed.

And he was gone, breath and life.

The light dimmed as the court physician laid his head on the pillow next to his king, and let his few deep tears soak the once-golden hair.

In the morning, the prince wept. The kingdom wept. The court physician smiled a beautiful smile, and consoled his new sovereign, encouraging and reassuring. The strength behind the young king, as the golden crown rested on tight black curls, was not the strength of the physician's body, but of a strong and luminous spirit.

They mourned for a full week, then they commemorated King Arthur's reign. The prince regent mourned – then allowed the celebration of his coronation, bravely resolved to honor the memory of his father, a truly great king.

The court physician excused himself early from the week-end feast, and made his way to his empty chamber alone. He breathed deeply of the familiar herbal tang, and left one candle burning for his apprentice, who still sometimes kept the irregular hours of the young. His heart gave a great pang as he stretched old bones out on his own bed, and he panted for a moment, closing his eyes to relax toward sleep.

 _We're ready, aren't we_ , he said to himself. _I thought I was ready to lose you, Arthur, I thought I'd made peace with the inevitability – and we did have a long, full, wondrous life, didn't we? But now we're the last… I'm the last_ …

He fell into a deep, heavy, dreamless sleep.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

And woke to a golden morning and a familiar sarcastic voice. "Get up, Merlin! Are you going to laze in bed for _eternity_?"

He opened his eyes and saw Arthur, dressed in crimson and wearing a familiar half-smile, haloed by the rising sun at the window behind him.

"Come on, we have things to do!" his king added, with an impatient gesture, and he grinned.

Because two sides of a coin _can't_ be separated, even by death. Especially when destiny is chosen.


	11. The Bravest Man

**A/N: Begins mid-episode 5.12 "The Diamond of the Day."**

 **The Bravest Man**

"Then it is at Camlann that we make our stand."

And exhaustion turned to despair, and fear to dread. Merlin felt sick to his stomach to hear that word, and the resolve in the king's tone.

When he was less than nothing. Weak, distracted, a failure.

He'd done nothing but delay the inevitable, when he'd been told – when he knew – he possessed the sheer power to affect change.

At least, he used to.

Merlin inhaled, and squared his shoulders, and after the council meeting was concluded, went to talk to Gaius in the physician's chambers with a calm exterior. He was no longer a boy to panic at the possibility – probability – of the king's death. It had seemed imminent before, after all, in spite of the prophecy.

No, he couldn't talk Arthur out of his plan of facing Morgana and her army at the mountain pass, remote from the city and its people. He'd only succeeded in talking Arthur out of anything a scant handful of times – and lately it seemed that the king had relied more and more on his own decision than the advice of his manservant.

As it should be, probably.

It wasn't hard to conclude that his own stand would have to be what it had always been – to protect Arthur as best he could. And that, with magic. Which thought led him to the Cave, and the dangerous Valley where it lay – and the knight who'd once before accompanied Merlin into Perilous lands for Arthur's sake.

Except… except.

He wasn't sure of anything, anymore. Maybe that was an effect of the loss of his magic. The loss of confidence in any ability he might have, to face this last challenge and actually prevail.

Maybe he'd die, killed at last by some filthy nameless bandit, and Gwaine with him, and no one would ever know what became of them. Labelled deserters, with all the shame that could bring on a man's name and memory. Maybe it wouldn't work, and he'd reach Camlann late and feeble – because of course he'd still _go_ – but then, at least he could die fighting at Arthur's side.

"If I can't prevent him from going then I must protect him as best as I can…"

Which at the moment, still meant he looked after Arthur's armor. And nearly ten years' experience had made his skill in this part of his job, as valid as his physician's skills in tending the wounded from the garrison battle.

He spread the array on the table in Arthur's chamber carefully – every bit shined and repaired and strengthened. By hand alone, because what other choice did he have, all night in the armory. Because how was he supposed to sleep. And because he didn't know how else to say what he felt.

"I think you'll find that's everything, sire," he said, standing respectfully still and clutching his hands behind him. Because this time, he wasn't just going to disappear and leave Gaius to say, _the tavern_.

Arthur seemed to hear the pretense, anyway. He was suspicious of Merlin's motives, he was confused by Merlin's attempt to make a good excuse. Physician's assistant duties, made urgent by the upcoming battle and anticipation of injuries. I was running an errand for Gaius.

But he didn't believe Merlin. Disappointment was clear in his face, even as he said, "No, no, it's fine. It's fine. I understand."

But he didn't. Merlin knew what he thought, what he assumed, that he'd lost faith in his king's ability to win the battle, that he would keep his distance from the fighting to protect his own life because all the rest were lost, anyway.

It hurt, even more so because Merlin was afraid to his bones that part was true, that there was no way Arthur could survive Camlann, even if his magic returned, it would still be too late.

"I always thought you were the bravest man I ever met," Arthur said.

Merlin began to relax – maybe he did understand, after all. Some things were more important than a manservant traveling with the army's columns. But then Arthur voiced his disappointment and misunderstanding, with the sarcasm that was both shield for his own heart, and sword aimed at Merlin's.

" _Guess I was wrong_."

And maybe it was true, after all, that Merlin was not brave. That he was the coward Arthur assumed, as he turned his back on Merlin with excruciating indifference, feigned or not.

Guess I was wrong. Guess I was wrong… And maybe this was the last time he'd see Arthur. Alive, upright, breathing, unbloodied… and still totally blind to who Merlin really was, complicated and mistaken and broken and lonely.

He was too tired. Drawn too tight for too long with no support and no surcease.

Merlin snapped.

So much frustration. Not only with Arthur, but that's what came out, as his friend turned away. Snatching at the first piece of armor that came to hand – a heavy leather gauntlet – he hurled it at the back of Arthur's head as hard as he could.

The king flinched as the leather glove struck him on the back of the neck, between his shoulder blades. As it flopped to the floor, Arthur whirled with an expression of startled and incredulous outrage that almost made Merlin laugh out loud.

Hysteria. Nerves. An iron control to rival Arthur's best, slipping at last to release an overwhelming dissatisfaction with and disgust at himself.

"After all these years," Merlin said, trying to keep his tone level – and only partially succeeding. "After _all_ the danger we faced together. If you think our ways part now because I'm _afraid_ , then you _did_ mean all those jokes!"

"Vital supplies," Arthur repeated, mocking sarcasm that stung like salt in a wound.

Once too often. And this time, Merlin couldn't swallow the forbidden word that he longed and feared to say.

"Magic."

Arthur went still.

And Merlin spat again, " _Magic_ , sire. Or do you honestly think you have a chance of defeating Morgana without it, not to mention her army of Saxons? Marching to certain death is very noble of course – but it means _nothing_ if it's not _effective_."

"What are you saying." Arthur's tone was dangerously even; his whole body alert. The rolled map forgotten in his hand at his side.

 _Me, Arthur. Me. Maybe I'm as brave as the knights or maybe I'm the biggest coward in the kingdom after all._

But he was tired of hiding, and it seemed like everything was ending, anyway.

"I've had magic all my life," he said. "I've used it for you and for Camelot, ever since we met." His voice trembled, and he didn't quite know the reason why – but then he had to correct himself. Must be truthful, in spite of the host of his lies. "I _had_ magic, I mean. It's gone now, and I'm going with Gwaine to see if I can get it back so when I come to Camlann –"

 _Because I wouldn't leave you to face this alone, and it hurts to know you'd believe that of me_ –

"I will actually be of some use to you beyond staying up all night to polish every damn bit of armor you own!" His throat felt raw, and every breath was coming too fast; every breath scraped like even the air had edges, and it was making his eyes tear up.

Arthur took one step toward him, then two. And continued in the same slow pace til he reached the table – never taking his eyes from Merlin – and set the map-scroll down on the metal and leather Merlin had laid out so carefully and neatly. And with his hand so close to any number of bladed weapons, Merlin couldn't help an involuntary step back.

"What do you mean, it's gone now?" the king demanded.

Merlin blinked.

Arthur repeated himself. "What do you mean. It's gone now? Merlin?"

"You…" He found his voice with an effort, and it hurt his throat to speak, too. "You believe me. You didn't – you're not making fun, telling me I'm too much of an idiot, there's no way I have magic, because you'd… because you'd…"

"Because I'd know?" Arthur said.

Way too calmly. Merlin couldn't think what that meant, yet – something so deeply significant he hadn't reached the bottom of it; the sensation of falling continued.

"I did know," Arthur said. "Right now I'm more concerned about your explanation for _it's gone_ , so –"

 _I did know._ Ye gods _…_

"How long?" Merlin whispered. "You knew. Since when?"

Arthur exhaled. "This is not a good time for this," he remarked. He eyed Merlin, then gave a small shrug. "For a while, I guess. Nearly a year."

Merlin's whole world reeled.

At Ismere, when they'd been caught by the slavers and he couldn't use magic to free them from the net because Arthur was too close. And instead Mordred had saved Arthur's life – and returned to Camelot to the acclaim and honor and trust of knighthood.

At the stones of Nemeton, and later when Uther's spirit had discovered his magic…

At the grove of Breneved, when Merlin had committed heresy, and still failed to protect his king.

At the dark tower, and if he'd known that Arthur knew, he could have _saved Elyan_ …

At the Cauldron. And did Arthur realize the actual identity of the Dolma, and was he laughing the whole time as Merlin made himself sick worrying about Gwen's reclamation and Mordred's presence – and then Aithusa and Morgana as well?

"How did you –" he said stiffly. "How did you –"

"Find out?" Arthur finished. "It wasn't like that. It was more of a… slow realization. Suspicions, discarded. Reawakened, rejected, repeated. I knew it, long before I admitted that was the only explanation for – so many things."

"So you've seen –" Merlin felt incapable of forming complete sentences. Glad that Arthur understood so easily – irritated that Arthur understood so easily.

"Nothing," Arthur said quickly, as if to correct a misconception. "Nothing definite. I tried not to, because that would mean…"

Yeah. Repercussions. Arrest-trial-execution kinds of repercussions.

"But you knew," Merlin repeated. "Almost a year."

Arthur nodded, and there was no fear or anger in his face, no sense of betrayal, only acceptance. Merlin had dreaded this moment for so long, convinced his punishment would include the end of any kind of relationship, the destruction of trust. Convinced it was going to be impossible for things to stay the same, so much so that he'd determined to keep lying and hiding for the rest of his life, for the sake of Arthur's survival and remaining servant to his master. He'd choked his own hope, squeezing his own heart ruthlessly into submission, denying his desires and –

For nothing. Unnecessary, for almost a year. The fear and pain and frustration…

He felt like the idiot Arthur was always calling him – for good reason, it seemed, though he'd always argued back in his own mind, mocking his prince and king for not seeing he wasn't an idiot.

He felt blind and stupid, like a child hiding in plain sight while Arthur was the adult who fondly indulged the illusion. Humiliation made him dizzily nauseated, for a moment. Guilt because this was exactly how he'd expected Arthur to feel, if and when he finally found out – and now their positions were reversed and he was angry. But still guilty.

"Every lie you heard me tell," he said.

And the one that hurt more than all the rest put together, the one that haunted his dreams – _there can be no place in Camelot for magic_. It still burned in his heart – hotter now than ever because there had been no point to it. No good to come of it in the end; Mordred lived and betrayed and hated and because of that, Morgana had known to send the _gean canach_ …

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I didn't believe the things you told me because they made sense," he said. "I believed _you_. What I heard you say was, _I'll take care of it no matter what_ , or _Don't worry it's been handled_."

Merlin should have been touched by that. Flattered, maybe – mollified, at least. But he only felt guilt-humiliation-fury, for the aching contortions of his conscience. The acceptance, rather than challenge, of mocking comments. Every sacrifice of his spirit he'd made this year. All for nothing.

He took a step toward his king, fists clenched at his side.

"You let me lie," he said.

Once again, Arthur stilled to seriousness. Not as if he'd suddenly been reminded that he could respect and even fear Merlin – he could force Arthur to that, he knew, and the thought, the fact that he'd think such a thought, made him sick. No, the sobering expression on the king's face was one Merlin knew for a sudden re-evaluation, maybe things weren't quite the way Arthur believed.

As if it hadn't occurred to him that Merlin could be anything but grateful to find out that his secret had been secretly discovered.

"You let me lie," he repeated to Arthur. "When every time it twisted me inside. When it was one more thing between us, pushing me away when I was trying to hang on, hiding who I truly was because I was sure you'd turn away if you ever really saw me. And tangling myself in knots –" he advanced another step, drawing his clenched fists up by his chest; Arthur dropped back a step – "trying to figure everything out on my own. And not make too many fatal mistakes and decide what was the lesser of two evils, and–"

He had to stop to breathe, but it didn't seem to help.

"You _let me lie_ ," he roared, and tears dripped down his face. Arthur flinched. "When it _changed_ _me_."

"Merlin," Arthur said, in quiet shock. But not for Merlin's rare display of temper. "I didn't realize – I didn't want you to change. I didn't know you… felt this way."

"Ha!" he scoffed aloud, because scorn would provoke Arthur's arrogance. And he needed the king angry at him – it was what he deserved, it justified his fear of transparency and truth, it would lessen the guilt he felt for lies and secrets and this outburst. "Something you didn't know. There was a lot you didn't know, Arthur. Things I've done, with and without magic. So much I never told you, and you didn't notice."

"When you trust someone, you don't have to know all their secrets," Arthur said.

Merlin shuddered, the emotion was so raw.

Everything he wanted, everything he was afraid to want, because it seemed so impossible. Arthur knowing, meeting his eyes as an equal, confident. Nothing changed. Everything changed.

"What about the law?" he dared.

Outside the room, preparations for marching the army to war continued. They did not have much time, but some things were more important than time.

"What about the law," Arthur said dismissively. "I've made peace with the druids. And in case you haven't noticed, there haven't been any executions for the use of magic since –"

"What are you going to do about _me_?" Merlin interrupted. "I've just confessed to a capital crime. You've said before, magic is evil."

"You're an exception," Arthur said, gesturing at him. "Evidently you can use magic and remain loyal, though you'll need to work harder at keeping it a secret. Your heart's in the right place, anyone can see that."

"Arthur," Merlin said, quietly but implacably – and caught his king's attention again. "I'm just the only exception _you've ever seen_. Magic isn't evil, it just _is_ – but people fear it, fear the consequences of breaking the laws of the Ban in any particular. Like those villagers who were going to murder the old woman with the horn. There are more – there might be many more like me, but you won't see that as long as you keep your father's laws and require your people to do the same."

The king looked at him, a frown drawing his brows together and pressing his mouth down. "I suppose I can't accept the proof of your claim while it's still illegal to present evidence to support it. Perhaps when we return –"

Reality crashed down around Merlin, shattering the moment into thousands of shards that all reflected what Merlin had seen of Arthur's death – the terrible belated realization of mortality widening the king's blue eyes in the vision – and he couldn't stop the harsh chuckle that twisted up his throat.

"I wish," he managed, to answer Arthur's puzzled-troubled look, "that you would have told me you knew. I could have–"

"I don't have the right to force your confidence," Arthur said in a low voice. Directly opposite to how he usually claimed, _I have every right, I'm king_. "I wasn't going to take the security of your secrecy from you, like that."

This time the expression of Merlin's morbid amusement felt and sounded more like a sob.

"But Arthur," he said. "If I wasn't keeping secrets so I didn't lose my place at your side, protecting you. I could have told you about Mordred, and about Camlann."

"Mordred made his own choice," Arthur stated, but couldn't quite hide his wince from Merlin – he knew that Arthur blamed himself as much as he did, for Mordred's abandonment of his vows as a knight of Camelot. "But what about Camlann? I never heard of the place before Percival mentioned it."

"I did," Merlin said. And couldn't help moving closer, to look deeply in his friend's eyes. "It is the place of your death, according to druid prophecy. I didn't try to warn you because you wouldn't listen if I couldn't explain –"

Arthur gave him a bleak look of shattered regret, maybe for his part in furthering the deception that came between them and prevented clear communication.

"And I didn't try to talk you out of it," Merlin continued gently, "because I know you, you don't hesitate to give your life for your people if that's what's necessary. I just – I need to try to get my magic back so that I… I can fight with you, when we go."

Arthur ducked his head in a nod, a wry smile pulling at one side of his mouth. "What happened? I didn't know it was possible for a person to lose his magic."

Merlin recalled the feeling of foreboding that had drawn him upright on his bed in the dark of his room, the silent sibilance of menace that had sobered him before the _gean canach_ struck.

Horror – disgust – abysmal emptiness – more horror.

He felt Arthur's hand on his shoulder, and it pulled him back into the shape of himself.

"You better sit down," the king advised, and there was no amusement in his tone.

"Mordred knew," he heard himself saying.

"He was a druid," Arthur remembered.

Merlin's vision cleared to see Arthur seated facing him, almost knee-to-knee, leaning over clasped hands. He couldn't tell whether this was a recent realization, or if Arthur had known for some time. Or all along?

He nodded. "Mordred would have told Morgana about… my magic."

"Surely not," Arthur protested immediately. "Perhaps he could not stay here, after – that girl's execution, but he would not have gone to –"

Merlin's neck felt like it creaked, when he shook his head. "That's prophecy, too," he explained, feeling a fatalistic calm like the smooth surface of a very deep, very dark pool. "Mordred and Morgana, united in evil."

"Is that why you never liked him," Arthur said tiredly.

"I never trusted him," Merlin said, and realized it for a correction. He could have liked Mordred, if not for that bit of unwanted foreknowledge. "But once Morgana knew I had magic, she would have realized that –"

"She needed to go through you, to get to me," Arthur said grimly, straightening and sitting back. "And whatever magic they did –"

"Dark magic," Merlin said without meaning to.

Arthur paused as if to consider for the first time, the theft of someone's magic – the rape of someone's soul – a crime. He observed, "You haven't been yourself."

Merlin clutched his fingers to keep them from shaking. For so long his magic had defined him; though he sometimes wished he'd never had it, he'd also thought, if he couldn't use it he might as well have never been born. Now… he had helped Gaius tend the casualties of Stowell, and he had made all the preparations for the king's journey, without his magic. He was still himself – and the king had not turned his back on him.

Arthur sighed. "You threw yourself in front of the dorocha. You went with us to face the dragon. And you stood by me twice when Morgana tried to take Camelot. Merlin – I'm sorry I provoked you, just now. I didn't realize… What can I do to help you?"

Merlin's heart almost broke. What wouldn't he have given to hear those words, other times in their lives? When he'd said them to Arthur, the response was usually, _Nothing; how can a mere servant help now_. If he'd been able to seek help from Arthur… but he couldn't take anyone or anything away from Arthur's battle arrangements.

"I asked Gwaine to go with me, but I won't keep him," he said. "There's a cave, the birthplace of magic. I hope… if anything is to be done, it will be there. But it's in the valley of the –"

"Fallen Kings," Arthur said. There was a clear, sharp, thoughtful look in his eyes, though his gaze was directed over Merlin's left shoulder. "That place. Once I thought we'd lost you there for good – and you came stumbling out without a scratch on you. And once I thought I'd been gravely wounded – and woke up with barely a bruise."

Merlin inhaled, straightening and gripping the arms of his chair. If Arthur knew the one key piece of information – Merlin had magic, all along – there was so much more he could discover. Good and bad, and hard to explain. Would he question – and would his questions lead to doubts?

Arthur's intensity locked their gazes together. "It's not that far out of our way," he said. "I'd planned a campaign to clear the bandits out of that valley, before Stowell, but… It's too dangerous, even with Gwaine, I can't let the two of you go alone. We'll ride out at first light with the army, and take a troop through the valley with you – it's not that far from our path to Camlann."

His throat was tight, but he managed, "Arthur, you don't have to –"

"You have been there for me when I needed you," Arthur said determinedly. "And I have been both blind and ungrateful. Allow me to be there for you when you need someone?"

And that, was true friendship offered.

He felt both overwhelmingly humbled, and overwhelmingly honored. Hiding his overflowing eyes with his sleeve, he ducked his head in a nod, and felt Arthur's hand squeeze his shoulder.

"Now," the king said, in a tone that added, _let's forget emotion and get back to action_. "How about actually packing all this lot?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Just half an hour after midday, and Merlin's stomach still nearly empty – he couldn't bring himself to swallow much – when Arthur nodded to Leon. The senior knight signaled the others, and along with Gwaine and Percival, they peeled away from the column, heading for the deeper forest that hid the Valley.

Gwen gave Merlin a look equal parts sympathy and encouragement as he followed his king. She'd expressed interest in accompanying them, early that morning before they'd departed the citadel. It still made his head spin, how quickly she'd gone from shock to gratitude, to hear of Merlin's erstwhile abilities. He wondered if she would have guessed also, before too long.

"Are we," Gwaine called forward, "far enough away from everyone else that I can ask, what the hell are we doing? Going _here_? now?"

Merlin darted a glance at Arthur; the king didn't look away from the path, but his lips quirked. "Vital supplies."

Gwaine snorted. Leon said, quietly concerned, "Sire?"

Arthur drew rein, pulling his mount's head sideways to block the path. Merlin's mare continued another pace before he reacted to halt her, looking over his shoulder as Arthur turned in the saddle to face his three knights. "Merlin has something he wants to tell you."

Merlin swallowed dryly as three pairs of eyes found him simultaneously. Now that Arthur knew – well, now he knew that Arthur knew – Arthur had advised and he had agreed, at least these three should know, also, as well as Gwen.

"I've used magic all my life," he said to them. "Before I came to Camelot, while Uther was king, up until this week. To protect Arthur. And the people."

Realization dawned in varying disconcerted degrees, memories resurfacing to be reconsidered, reactional prejudice checked.

And then Percival said, "Oh."

And all three looked at Arthur. Who said mildly, "Arrest him for immediate execution."

Merlin's heart lurched in momentary disbelief and fear, before he realized. Arthur was between him and the knights, facing them.

Gwaine's eyes narrowed. "You're joking, right?"

Leon did something with his reins that set his mount shifting its weight uncomfortably, as he looked from his king to Merlin, and back again. Percival was frowning in a puzzlement that made him look very young.

Arthur added, "We'll kill him and leave him here, avoid the trial and the gossip and paranoia of revealing my manservant as a sorcerer. He hasn't got his magic now, so we've nothing to fear from him."

Merlin's pulse thudded around his body with painful uncertainty.

"That's not funny, Sire," Leon said, faintly troubled. Gwaine was scowling – at Arthur - and gripping the hilt of his sword.

"What makes you think I'm not serious?" Arthur said, still in that same calm voice. Gwaine glanced at Leon.

Who answered, logically, "Because you still trust him. You've got your back to him right now. And he hasn't kicked his horse into a gallop to escape – he trusts you, too."

Arthur looked back at Merlin contemplatively – and he tried to appear more confident.

"You just wanted to see how we were going to react," Gwaine said accusingly.

"I did," Arthur answered, guiding his mount to continue. "I've known about Merlin for a while, now. His loyalty is unquestionable – which means I'm going to have some laws to revise when we return. But if I'm to have a chance at that, we've got to get Merlin to a cave in this Valley that will renew his powers. I wasn't joking when I said he hasn't got magic, at the moment."

Behind him, Percival realized, "And that's why we're along, because it's too dangerous a trip for him to make alone and unprotected."

"And why you had to see if we were going to protect him, after we knew," Leon added. Merlin risked a glance at him – he still seemed faintly troubled, but he was loyal to Arthur, too; he'd follow where his king led.

"What happened, anyway?" Gwaine asked, riding up on Merlin's outside flank.

"We think when Mordred betrayed his oath, he joined Morgana and betrayed Merlin's secret, too," Arthur answered for him. "She sent a magical creature – dead now, don't worry – to strip his magic."

"You've seemed a little odd these last days," Gwaine realized. "You all right, mate?"

Merlin smiled at him, thoroughly warmed by the word, and nodded. A bit dizzy, again, at how quickly these three accepted the truth about him – and a little sick to his stomach to remember how afraid he'd been that they might not. Or maybe he was just hungry, after all.

"Provided this works, whatever Merlin's got to do to regain magic," Leon said. "You plan on allowing him to use it openly at Camlann?"

"I'm sure Morgana won't expect him to be there at all, after what she did," Arthur said.

"I'm sure she won't expect me to be wielding magic right next to you, either," Merlin said. Somehow, as they all rode together, his uncertainty was settling into the conviction that this would work, that his magic would return in time for him to join battle with the witch, allied in evil with the druid boy – no matter what Kilgarrah said about fate and doom.

"I can't wait to see her face when she sees the two of you fighting together," Gwaine added, with a fierce exultation in his voice.

"Quiet, now," Arthur cautioned, lowering his own voice. "The Valley."

The warning came too late. Half a dozen ragged bandits erupted from hiding places in front of them – a second later, another contingent attacked the rear with full-throated battle cries.

Merlin panicked silently. Now it wasn't just his life and Gwaine's, in danger, it was Percival's and Leon's and –

Arthur.

Merlin drew the sword hung on his saddle awkwardly and slow – desperately – and swung at the two men who came at him. And lost his weapon to the second – jarring clang and numbing fingers.

And Arthur was fighting to keep his seat as three more bandits sought to pull him down.

A storm of emotion swelled up and out – anger and fear, agony and anxiety – an impossible dream, lately realized, now threatened. And he couldn't do anything –

Yes he damn well could.

Merlin yelled his feelings of frustration – and didn't stop. _Under-after-following-towing-overwhelming_ came the magic.

Like a geyser from a dry well. He was too shocked for his usual control, and defense exploded from him, blasting each attacker back, bodily off their feet til they hit various trees and tumbled to the ground.

The mounts whinnied and danced. Merlin gulped and shook with reaction for a moment. Only a few of their downed assailants moved, and none rose.

"Holy hell," Gwaine said blankly.

"And that didn't even touch us," Leon added, and he sounded as shaky as Merlin felt.

Arthur checked all around them, before sheathing his sword and giving Merlin a brilliantly triumphant grin. "So it's back, then."

Merlin nodded dumbly. His magic felt like it was simmering down inside him, still hot and ready and _full_ – but returning to its usual quiescence.

"You can't really lose what you are," Percival concluded thoughtfully, while Merlin's gaze was still connected to his king's.

And he thought – and he saw that Arthur thought, too – of a moment in a clearing not too terribly unlike this, not too terribly far from here. Metal in rock, and symbolism and confidence, re-claiming a possession, again accepting a privileged responsibility. Authority and power, and _Arthur understood him_.

"Come on, Merlin," Arthur said, fiercely eager. "Let's go to Camlann."

 **A/N: If I was a reader, I would not want this story to end here. But as a writer, I've done 'changes to Camlann', before, I don't want to repeat myself. Suffice to say, when details change, I believe the end result would change also. Morgana doesn't hear from Eira that Merlin and Gwaine are heading to the Valley, so she doesn't trap Merlin there. And if he can stand in the gap and throw magic around, then he can be at Arthur's side when Mordred reaches him…**

 **Also, it's kind of a head-canon thing for me, that the cave doesn't really return Merlin's magic, as though he would have remained powerless forever, if he hadn't gone there. I think it's something that might take time to recover, and a level of confidence and faith in himself (that his vision of Balinor provides, in-canon). And maybe a whole lot of, if Arthur needs Merlin's magic desperately and imminently, it answers even without Merlin's conscious intent.**

 **There's one more story, which might be 2 chapters – it isn't finished yet, so I don't know when it'll be posted…**


	12. Dear Gaius (1)

**A/N: Also begins mid ep.5.12 "The Diamond of the Day". Italics = thoughts or emphasis or dialogue quoted from series episodes. Bold = written material that's being read. Sorry for any confusion…**

 **Dear Gaius**

"You know, Merlin…" Arthur spoke deliberately, so emotion wouldn't escape and betray him in his tone. "All those jokes about you being a coward. I never really meant any of them." _You just had a different sort of courage, and damn it all, I still don't get that_. "I always thought you were the bravest man I'd ever met."

Someone who lifted his chin and spoke his mind to the crown prince – to the king. Until today.

Arthur paused, hurt and anger smoldering together in his chest to watch Merlin stand there, hands at his side. Eyes brimming – meeting his hopefully at the implied compliment. _You are brave. I rely on you… I trust you_.

And yet, obviously Merlin didn't trust him. Not enough to tell him the truth. _I've been given too much time to think about facing Morgana again, and I'm scared. I don't think we can do this._

 _I don't think_ you _can do this._

It was unbearable, Merlin's subservience – like premature defeat. So Arthur set out deliberately to provoke – _something_. A reaction, an explanation, a defense… something.

"Guess I was wrong."

Nothing.

And in the end, it was Arthur who looked away, who turned away, moving aimlessly to the other room in a defeated retreat of his own.

Merlin believed in the impossible, and then it happened. And if he didn't believe this time, if he was absenting himself from Arthur's side – though of course a servant wouldn't accompany a warrior to the battlefield anyway – Arthur felt alone. He was the king, and he would have an army at his back, and he'd be alone.

Across the adjoining chamber, he heard the respectfully soft click of the door latch as it closed behind Merlin without another word spoken, and the noise pierced his heart like a slender splinter, to bleed and bleed.

He felt that effect for another hour or so, weakening, exhausting, draining, debilitating.

And though he didn't really want to repeat their non-conversation, and though he didn't always trust Gaius' excuses for Merlin's absences, he gave himself a reason for passing by the physician's quarters. Checking to see that supplies for the sounded were gathered and packed. That Gaius had all the help he needed.

 _I have an urgent errand to run for Gaius. Vital supplies that I can't obtain here._

The room was empty. Not cluttered, as though Gaius and his part-of-the-time assistant were still in the midst of arrangements, but as if they had been completed early. Arthur wondered if Gaius was overseeing the organization of the infirmary-wagon, in the stables or in the courtyard.

Pausing to inhale the pungent, usually-soothing herbal tang of the air, a moment of calm in the frenetic pace of battle preparations, Arthur cast his gaze once more around the room. Because if he didn't come back – if Morgana was victorious and returned to rule as Camelot's queen…

There was a lumpy cloth bag on the side table under the window, like one last thing mistakenly overlooked. Placed to attract attention and remembrance – and there was a folded scrap of parchment propped against it.

Arthur stepped to the table for a closer look. _Dear Gaius_ , written on the outside, in Merlin's hand.

Which was odd. If Merlin truly was running errands for Gaius, what need of a note left here? It was more indicative of… a final farewell.

Arthur sneered in further disappointment. So Merlin couldn't even stand before Gaius with his hands at his sides and his eyes full, telling lies – he'd leave the old man who'd been both guardian and friend for nearly a decade, a _note_.

His fingers twitched, and disappointment dissolved toward curiosity. What was in the note? What was in the _bag_?

Before he could think twice – _well, I am king, after all_ – Arthur threw one leg over the bench and sat down, plucking up the note where his thumb would open the crease, and the bag with his other hand. It was light and rustle-y, and the drawstring wasn't tied – he glimpsed more folded parchment, even as his eyes tracked to the words scrawled in inelegant haste.

 _ **Dear Gaius. This time we got to say goodbye, and I'm glad for it – but if this doesn't work, if the cave in the Valley of the Fallen Kings holds nothing for me, then I will see you in Camlann.**_

 _ **Or maybe not, for I won't be with you, but with Arthur. Of course. If this is really the end, the end of everything, I will still give my life defending him. Mordred and Morgana will only get to him over my dead body, I swear it to all the gods that meddle with human lives. And he won't know anything – but it won't matter, if we're both past caring.**_

 _ **And maybe you won't be coming back here, in that case. But if you do, I want you to know all of this, read all of these letters, finally. All my gratitude, every time. If not for you, I would have been dead long ago, and I know I act and sound ungrateful, particularly this year, I know I've ignored your advice – but I do treasure it. All the worry and caution and even the scolding, Gaius, I heard you. I listened. And I loved you for it. For the book you gave me, the things you taught me about life and medicine and magic. I was proud to…**_

The emotion of the letter twisted Arthur's heart with guilt, for what he'd said in his chamber, for what he was doing now in theirs, but… that word jolted him right out of the missive's flow of feeling and inexplicable references.

Magic.

Logic tried to assert itself – Gaius knew at least half as much about magic as he did about medicine, and if he intended Merlin to replace him someday, then…

 _Gaius has heard of a sorcerer, an old man, living in the Forest of Glaestig…_ But, _This sorcerer will be entirely different – I have chosen a woman._

Arthur trusted Gaius' knowledge; it had never been wrong, had it? He'd trusted Gaius' trust in both Dragoon and Dolma… with varying results.

 _ **If this doesn't work. A cave in the Valley of the Fallen Kings.**_

That did not sound like vital supplies. That sounded a lot more like _A rich variety of people with a range of different beliefs, seeking to protect you… One day you will understand, just how much they've done for you._

Arthur shuddered. If Merlin had gone after that old man for his help at Camlann… What should he do when they showed up at the battlefield? And after?

 _When I am King, things will be different – you won't have to live in fear._

But _if_ , sounded like Merlin wasn't sure. Ignoring the deeply personal closing of the letter, Arthur scanned the first lines again – another shiver rippling through him at the ironclad avowal of loyalty-to-the-death. Merlin meant _over my dead body_ literally – and Arthur had called him coward.

Mordred and Morgana… That was news to Arthur. A disappointment, but not an impossibility. He'd knighted Mordred in good faith that being raised a druid did not equate with having or using magic – but the state of Mordred's vacant prison cell after the execution of the girl who'd attempted to assassinate Arthur was undeniably conclusive. And it wasn't such a leap of logic to assume that he'd seek out Morgana – the current champion of sorcery – for alliance and maybe revenge. Morgana might accept him even after he'd stabbed her, if she held her temper long enough to realize that as a former knight of Camelot, Mordred might have valuable information.

Arthur wondered if Merlin had left already – if there was time to catch him, to discuss his self-appointed mission to recruit a magic-user to fight on their side. To force him to take some company for protection, for the love of Camelot, that valley was infested with bandits, to Arthur's shame and annoyance. Or would that cross the line from not being able to stop someone using magic, even on their side, to actively generating something he was duty-bound to prosecute?

Something else caught his attention, before he could stand from the table and stride from the room.

 _He won't know anything_ … Maybe that referred to Arthur himself, never aware that they'd tried to match Morgana's magic at this battle, even illegally and without his permission. But… _all of this_. Implied more.

The folded papers in the cloth bag rustled suggestively, and Arthur laid down Merlin's farewell letter to Gaius to investigate.

Drawing the whole stack carefully free, to keep them ordered so that none could tell they'd been interfered with, he twisted the collection to find the one that was darkest and most brittle with age.

Again, _Dear Gaius_ written across the outside.

Handling the rest of the stack carefully, he thumbed it open. This note, the earliest written, was scrawled carelessly, as if dashed off in a great hurry. Arthur had seen Merlin's writing so many times over the years he knew it immediately – but it seemed to hold such reckless enthusiasm, compared to the neat, cautious way Merlin wrote now, a style that lingered even in the haste of today's letter.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **So we're off to the cisterns again, me and Arthur and Morgana because of course she won't stay behind. Don't worry, that monster, that afanc, won't stand a chance.**_

 _ **And… yet I'm writing this. Just in case, all right? I lied about knowing about elements, really the dragon told me but I couldn't say that to you, obviously – forgive me?**_

 _ **We'll be all right. I know we will. Arthur's brave and a capable warrior, and I've got the spell that will work… Just, if it doesn't, please tell my mother I love her and I've missed her and I'm sorry I wasn't more careful? And thank you for everything. Hopefully I can get back in one piece before you actually find this…**_

Arthur read it twice. And then again.

What the hell?

He remembered the afanc – he remembered all the monsters. The moment of first laying eyes on each of them, the despair that threatened at the obvious impossibility of victory… The energy of fatalistic resolve to do his best and go down fighting, anyway. That feeling was here in this letter; Merlin had felt it, too – and he was no kind of warrior, not then and not really now. The first of many times they'd faced fantastic danger, together.

But there was that infallible belief – _don't worry, it won't stand a chance_.

Somehow connected oh-so-breezily to a mention of the dragon – and that was a couple of years before its release, wasn't it? For the love of… Camelot, Merlin must have found its prison – and talked to it – and trusted it… Arthur wanted to thump his head several times against the table. Damn his ignorant peasant innocence and his incorrigible curiosity.

 _I've got the spell_. Arthur remembered a gust of air, blowing the torch he'd used as a last resort, thinking then of defending their retreat against the monster.

Well, they'd dabbled in the edges of magic over the years, looking for solutions, breaking enchantments, hadn't they? He'd blown the Horn and then taken the potion that would allow him to see spirits; he'd requested the ritual at the Cauldron; he'd authorized the attempted healing of his father with magic. But this… implied that Merlin had performed magic, that day.

Gaius _could_ , Arthur knew. He'd never asked specifically if the old man _had_ , on any given occasion, because of the law he'd been born and had sworn to uphold, and why would you want such a friend and a valuable ally to incriminate himself? He trusted Gaius' motives, even if the old physician had crossed the line he was skirting, risking exposure for the greater good and protection of king and kingdom.

And Merlin. If Arthur was honest, it wasn't as shocking upon reflection, to think that the apprentice had done as the master, at least as far as research went.

Merlin capable of performing effective magic… was he frightened by that thought?

In those early days, Merlin had been foolish and impetuous and careless. Arthur remembered that Gwen's father had been the only one cured of the disease caused by that afanc in the water. He remembered that she'd been accused of sorcery and imprisoned – he remembered arguing for her life to be spared, if she'd only intended good to come from the magic performed in healing. His heart still twisted to think of what might have been – what might not have been – and tonight when they were alone, he intended to hold her very close and tight.

Tomorrow he was going into battle again. This time against Morgana, for the sake of his queen and his kingdom…

Magic had twisted Morgana, hatred and enmity and now she sought to destroy what she had once risked her life beside him and beside Merlin to defend. When he caught up to Merlin – or maybe a couple of the knights could carry the message when they followed him to the Valley – he'd have to warn him. Probably that old Dragoon, or whatever his name really was, knew the safeguards against the corruption of prolonged usage of magic. Probably Gaius did too – but Merlin was foolish and reckless.

And, Arthur had to admit, his young manservant had been acting different, this year. Somber and cheerless… he hoped it was not the beginning of losing Merlin to the lure of sorcery's evil. After Camlann…

 _I've got the spell that will work – just, if it doesn't…_

 _If this doesn't work…_

Arthur looked at the folded papers in his hand differently. If each one was a farewell, when Merlin was trying something risky – something magical, _each_ time? – didn't Arthur had the right to know. Didn't he have the responsibility, now that they were facing an enemy sorceress again? He understood why Gaius and Merlin would not have suggested magic to him as a solution, even if it was necessary, but surely they had talked tactics and possibilities, before now?

Curiosity burned. The need to know weighed on him with the memory and urgency of tomorrow's march.

He laid the afanc note down on its _Dear Gaius_ , and opened the next.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **I know you told me to stay out of it, but honestly, when you told me that, it was already too late. I'm sorry I bungled the druid boy's treatment – I guess I'll have to pay more attention to your lessons next time? There'll be a next time, I'm sure.**_

 _ **Unless, of course, we're caught. Which is why I'm writing this… Last time, I managed to get my goodbye note back – and I think I'll be able to this time… But just in case.**_

 _ **Sorry, the dragon again. Also told me I shouldn't help the boy. He said he was destined to kill Arthur, or something. But I guess, if we're caught, he'll be executed right along with me. And, after all, I don't want that to happen.**_

 _ **Anyway, if it does. I'm really sorry for not paying better attention to you, but you should know I really do appreciate your warnings and your teaching and training and everything. And tell my mother I'm sorry, and I love her. And maybe, someday tell Arthur why I helped the druid boy to begin with.**_

" _Mer_ lin…" Arthur growled, pinching the stack of unopened letters savagely. If each of these was going to make him want to bang his head on the table…

That boy was Mordred. How could he forget? It was the first time he'd actually defied his father's orders, and helped a criminal escape. _Criminal_. Without an accusation, without a trial, without even a name, his father had condemned the boy for being what he was born. A druid.

And even though Arthur had made his peace with the peaceful druids, there were still those like Kara – like Morgana – who were consumed by bitterness and sought revenge with violence. And the just response to that vengeful passion – the swift execution of an unrepentant attempted-assassin - had alienated Mordred…

Arthur snorted to himself, refolding the note. Of course Merlin had gotten involved without thinking, way back then; of course he'd protected a little boy without caring about the consequences.

Or the magic. Merlin had never feared magic, Arthur realized suddenly; he'd feared the danger.

Which said something about magic itself, didn't it?

Arthur didn't want to examine that too closely. He laid the Mordred note on the afanc note, and opened the third, plunging into yet another memory.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **I've seen Anhora. I asked for another chance for Arthur to lift this curse, and he's going to take it and ride to the Labyrinth of Gedref. I can't let him go alone.**_

Arthur closed his eyes, clenching his fist around the sheet involuntarily. That, he'd never quite gotten over. That paralyzing fear that everyone was going to die, and it was his fault, and he couldn't fight it, and he couldn't die for his people – they were dying for him. It resonated with a suppressed fear for tomorrow…

If he could drink a cup of disguised poison and wake up with the curse his half-sister threatened _over_ , and his people safe, he'd do it. He'd even drink the actual poison.

But after all, that had worked out. Merlin had been at the Labyrinth. Merlin had sought out the sorcerer to beg his help… Merlin was a far better servant of Camelot than Arthur had ever been. He didn't let his pride get in his way – though evidently he didn't let the law get in his way, either.

They were definitely going to have to _talk_.

Leaving the rest unread, Arthur laid the unicorn note down and unfolded the next from the stack.

 _ **Dear Gaius.**_

These letters were smaller and darker than those of the previous notes, which appeared dashed off in a hurried hand. This was far more deliberate.

 _ **I'm sorry. I failed to protect Arthur from the Questing Beast. It was my responsibility, my fault that it happened. Morgana had one of her dreams again, and I should've listened, I should've asked her all the details, but I thought… I thought I could handle it, I was sure this wasn't any different than the afanc, maybe, in spite of its size and your warning.**_

 _ **I'm so sorry I didn't listen.**_

 _ **I'm going to make it right, though, Gaius, I promise. No matter what. The dragon says it will take ancient, powerful magic, and so I'm going to the Isle of the Blessed. I don't care how dangerous it is – and I know I'm not listening to your warning again. I just, I can't lose Arthur without trying everything. You understand, don't you? If it doesn't work – or if it does, but the price is my life and I don't come back…**_

The letter concluded with the same sort of sentiment as the others. Messages for his mother, gratitude for Gaius' care and instruction. Apologies.

Arthur closed his eyes again, straining through the fog of memory, but though both times he'd faced that fearsome beast were relatively clear in his mind, the rest of those days was a blur. Except for that one odd conversation when he thought that Merlin was quitting – only to hear the first of those surprisingly-poignant declarations of loyalty. _I'm happy to be your servant til the day I die_.

Disconcerting thought – was Merlin still happy being Arthur's servant? Gwen was queen, and their friends were all knights, and of course they never stood on protocol in private, but… was Merlin still happy.

Hardly ever, all year this year. Was that the effect of too much corruptive magic – or was that because they'd acquired Mordred in the expedition to Ismere? Destined to kill Arthur? Or something?

Why hadn't Merlin ever _said_?

Arthur had to answer his own question honestly. _Because you'd have mocked and ignored him. Maybe even threatened him, like when he'd spoken against Agravaine…_

He redirected his thoughts deliberately, to wonder what Merlin had found on the Isle that had been so effective in healing. His memories of that place were the substance of nightmares, honestly – death and darkness, infested with wyverns.

But that had only been the first year, and already he was a third of the way through Merlin's stack of notes. So had these dangers and risks that Arthur had not been fully aware of abated… or had Merlin gotten better at dealing with them without fear for his life? Had he simply stopped fearing for his life – or had he stopped bothering to leave a communication for Gaius?...

The next letter was not addressed like the others – and when Arthur opened it, he received a shock. It wasn't Merlin's scrawl at all, but Gaius' spidery elegance.

 _ **Dear Merlin,**_

 _ **My life is already near to its end. There has, for the most part, been very little purpose to it, very little that will be remembered. In contrast, Merlin, your life is destined for greatness. Live by the tenets I have taught you, and I believe you will, in time, become the greatest warlock ever. To have known you has been my greatest pleasure, and to sacrifice myself for you is but an honor. You are and always will be the son I never had.**_

Wait, what? Gaius considered that Merlin would be a greater man than he was? Arthur admitted that Merlin was a good man, a brave man and knowledgeable and capable, but… greater than Gaius? The ending was not so surprising; everyone knew how Gaius had treasured Merlin.

But… _warlock_. Gaius called Merlin a warlock. That meant… what? What was the difference to someone with the ability - and rare occasion - to use magic?

Druids were raised in the religion of magic, the prophecy and lore and history, though not all of them practiced, or were able to learn – as Arthur understood it. Sorcery was magic sought after, pursued and learned and earned by repetition and sacrifice – an ominous thought he did not want details on, but…

That had not been Morgana. Perhaps she had defended Mordred as a boy, perhaps she had challenged Uther's views on magic when Gwen was falsely accused, but Arthur couldn't think she'd even had opportunity to learn. Gaius had given her potions – though evidently he was teaching and training Merlin, Arthur highly doubted the old man would have allowed Morgana access to the information.

And there was that once when Morgana had been abducted by the druids. And that year she'd been abducted by the sorceress Morgause, before betraying them all. Had she been forced into sorcery? Had she been curious, and tempted by the power? Or was it something else – those dreams Merlin had mentioned believing, Arthur could remember years before Merlin ever came to Camelot, Morgana claiming to have dreamed about things before they happened. No one said _magic_ – of course no one would. But what if…

 _Warlock_. What if that meant before Merlin had even met Gaius and his books and his knowledge and research. What if that referred to something _innate_?

How was Arthur supposed to deal with something like that?

Absently he laid aside the note Gaius had written for Merlin – taking some unknown risk of his own? – and unfolded the next from the stack. Another one written in an untidy hurry.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **I have to go to the druids. Uther thinks Morgana's been kidnapped –**_

What?

 _ **and Arthur has been ordered to rescue her, and it's my fault because she was so scared, and I know you told me not to tell her about my magic, but maybe I should've because telling her where to find the druids was a mistake and now people are going to die because of me –**_

 _My magic_. Arthur shivered, and once again focused his concentration elsewhere.

Morgana's kidnapping was their second year as master and servant. Arthur remembered the fire started in Morgana's room that had frightened her – unduly, he'd thought then. Then followed the routine of searching for a sorcerer who may or may not have attacked – but when she'd disappeared from the citadel, he had _believed_. He remembered that raid on the druid camp – unlike the one he'd led as an untried boy that still twisted his stomach in spite of the forgiveness spoken by another druid boy in Elyan's voice – it had been justified. So he thought.

His stomach lurched, just a bit, to think that Merlin had experienced a similar feeling of culpability.

Morgana's dreams – magic, emerging? That sort of innate magic that the terms witch and warlock referred to? And Morgana had gone to that camp of her own volition…

 _ **and I don't know what will happen when we get there but if I'm found out and killed, I'm sorry. I really am – but I don't think I was wrong, in telling her where to find people that could and would help her. I don't know if she's going to get that chance again – if I can't talk to her about magic, and you won't. I'm not saying you're wrong, not now when I might not see you again, but… I don't know. I've got to go, I'm late, so just – read the other notes. I still mean it all.**_

Arthur filled his lungs, held the breath, then let it out in a long hard sigh.

Probably it was because of Merlin that most of the camp had escaped that day. And probably Morgana could have and should have taken responsibility, admitted she'd sought them out, even from curiosity or the sort of flouting of her guardian's laws she seemed to make a habit, sometimes. Honestly, she'd managed to leave the citadel on such unsanctioned trips as often as he had; why hadn't she been smarter about leaving, that day?

Perhaps the discovery of whatever innate ability she possessed that made her a witch, had turned her attention from the suffering innocents of Camelot, to her own possible suffering.

But she wasn't innocent, anymore.

Arthur carefully laid that note down, upside down over the ones he'd already read. If Morgana had ever had occasion to write a series of letters like this – to Gwen, maybe? before she'd decided to betray them and side with Morgause – what might they have said?

 _I'm sorry? I love you all? I want to explain how I feel, and what I think?_

His chest ached to think of all the mistakes and misunderstandings and wrong choices that had led all of them from there, to here.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **I'm sorry.**_

Arthur made a rude noise aloud in the stillness of the room. It seemed his manservant was forever thanking Gaius for his instruction, and simultaneously apologizing for ignoring it.

 _ **I don't like it any more than you do, the idea of Arthur accepting Morgause's challenge. But he has a right to keep an oath he made, to keep his honor, and I don't think Uther as the king or his father, should keep him from that. I'm sorry I didn't tell you what we're going to do, but I swear I will guard him with my life. If he doesn't come home, neither will I.**_

Arthur shuddered. Wasn't that the very thing Merlin had sworn in the note he'd written today? _Over my dead body_.

Even knowing what he knew now of Morgause, he couldn't be sorry he'd gone. That he'd kept that oath that Merlin had known would be important, no matter how he felt about putting his head on that block, or seeing his mother – no matter the rage he'd returned with, the self-righteous indignation at the idea that his father had requested magic and then betrayed its user.

But hadn't he done just that.

With old Dragoon, giving promises that had been rescinded because the outcome wasn't what he wanted. If he'd kept that promise as faithfully as he'd kept the one made to Morgause, how might things be different now?

Shame swept over him in a cold, wet wave to think… he was more like his father than he liked. Dragoon hadn't promised results, only his best effort. And Arthur had declared, _magic is evil_ – just like Uther. Maybe he hadn't combed his kingdom looking for any hint of it to punish, maybe he hadn't jumped to that conclusion against all logic when otherwise inexplicable things happened – but had he made things difficult for Gaius and Merlin? Had he prevented them from being able to speak to him honestly and openly? Had he created his own enemies – Kara, and Mordred?

Did he want to keep reading.

Arthur laid the last sheet down, lightly and carefully. And selected the next.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **I'm leaving. I know what you think about Freya – that's her name, the druid girl, she has a name, she's a person – and the creature that Arthur's been hunting for killing those people. I know you think that turning her in to the king is the right thing to do, but it's not. The curse isn't her fault, if you knew her, if you saw her, you'd know that.**_

 _ **I'm leaving and I'm taking her with me. She won't hurt me, don't worry, we'll go far away from everyone and I'll break the curse, I will, you know I can.**_

 _ **I know what we've said about Arthur, and my destiny. I haven't forgotten, and it isn't as if I don't care. It's just – she needs me a lot more than Arthur does, right now. And the way I feel when I'm with her – she understands me, I really think she might… like me, as much as I like her. I think we can be happy together.**_

 _ **And if you'd heard what he said last week about people who use magic – that we're evil and dangerous… He doesn't want me, not really. He can't accept me, and maybe he never will.**_

Arthur pushed roughly away from the table, dropping the note like it had caught fire. He had to pace for a few minutes to keep from exploding – shouting, or sobbing. Or both. Another druid, that Merlin had considered innocent, and freed – and which had resulted in several deaths.

"Hells, why didn't you…" he said aloud, kicking over the stool in the struggle of his feelings.

No, he knew why Merlin hadn't said anything. That sort of communication between him and his servant had been forbidden many times over. And it kept Merlin isolated, when choices like this came up – and of course he made decisions based on his emotions in the moment. And then of course he felt guilty when they went wrong.

The realization of Merlin's intended departure, even years ago, vibrated through the bedrock of his conviction of his friend's loyalty, but he trembled to know that it was in response to his own actions and attitudes. How personally Merlin must have taken that. How adept he'd become at hiding the hurt – because Arthur knew he'd repeated the sentiment, at least as often as he'd questioned whether it was correct.

And he cringed to remember, _Guess I was wrong_ …

He cringed to remember the tip of his sword cleaving that creature's thick black fur – he never had seen her as a girl, and wondered if she had been pretty. He'd never seen Merlin with a girl, else.

He cringed to remember how Merlin had encouraged him in his relationship with Guinevere - _How can I admit that I think about her all the time. Or that I care about her more than anyone. How can I admit that I don't know what I'll do if any harm comes to her?_ Harm had come to the girl Merlin cared about – at Arthur's hand. And yet, he'd been there the next day – subdued, but there. And he'd allowed Arthur to coax a smile. And he'd talked Arthur out of marrying Elena – and Mithian, though that was mostly body language – and had never given up on Guinevere's return, even through the months when Arthur couldn't bear to hear her name, from the despair of a broken heart.

Arthur had rarely felt more undeserving.

Merlin said so much, all the time, more than Arthur ever wanted. And yet, it seemed he hadn't said enough. Because sometimes he really did pay attention to what Arthur didn't want to hear…

"You never were going to say anything, were you?" Arthur demanded of the empty air, in the direction of Merlin's back room, up three uneven stairs and through a door left ajar. "Just – let me go my way in ignorance, blindly trampling all over the truth and your feelings…"

He stopped and turned to glare at the two little piles of folded parchment. Any minute Gaius might return, and if Gaius interrupted this exercise in breach-of-privacy, he'd have to demand answers and explanations from the old physician. He could take these back to his own chamber, except Gwen would be there, and he shouldn't let anything distract him from their last night together.

The one thing he didn't think he could do, was to leave the rest of them unread.

The chamber was growing dim – the day was dying. Merlin was long gone, and Gaius maybe returning in moments. Arthur focused, for a moment, on lighting half a dozen candles about the room. On the table. Then he sat down again and picked up the next letter.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **Don't have much time, the dragon – and Arthur – waits for no man. Oh, Kilgarrah – that's his name. Did you know? Balinor – my father, told me that.**_

Arthur let the page fall, feeling numb from shock upon shock.

Or maybe this was all a crazy pre-battle dream. But the candles flickered, and the moments passed, and he didn't wake.

He turned his eyes back to the words.

 _ **I forgive you for not telling me sooner. If we don't come back tonight, please tell my mother I forgive her, too. I understand why you didn't say anything – it's the same reason I've never told anyone I loved who I really am. Because the telling puts them in danger…**_

Black letters swam on cream parchment, and what Arthur saw was the bearded hermit clutched in the boy's arms. What he heard was the half-stifled sobs, and for days after, reddened eyes in spite of their victory.

The son of the dragonlord. And that, the reason why Merlin had grown up fatherless – the Pendragon score to settle with any and all magic. _My fault. My fault_.

 _ **I'm sorry for releasing the dragon – but I made him a promise, when I needed him and didn't have anything else to give in return.**_

Oh, for hell's sake.

What was it with promises? Should they still be kept when such catastrophe followed?

Arthur supposed if he decided not to regret keeping that promise to Morgause, he wouldn't fault Merlin for keeping a promise like, _I'm going to free the dragon._

 _His fault. My fault. Our fault, together._

 _ **I don't want to kill him, he's the last of his kind after all. But if it comes to him or Arthur…**_

He let the page refold on itself, and drop to the pile that was now higher than the first, and would grow. Inexplicable secrets, bared emotion – incomprehensible. Arthur thought distantly about rereading with slower scrutiny, and wondered if he _could_.

It felt a bit like drowning. He'd had dreams about drowning, once, a very long time ago… He remembered waking from those dreams to Gaius' concern. And Merlin's cheeky grin. A stupid story about his manservant knocking him out to prevent him eloping…

Arthur put his elbow on the table, and rested his forehead in his palm.

 **A/N: TBC…**


	13. Dear Gaius (2)

**Dear Gaius** (part 2)

 _Arthur put his elbow on the table, and rested his forehead in his palm._

Reached to slide the next letter into better light and angle, and pushed the singly-folded sheet open.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **Tomorrow morning we're to set out again, searching for news of Morgana. I don't really expect there to be trouble, I mean to say, I don't have any idea of not returning, this time. I just, I wanted to write another one of these letters to you. Not just in case I don't see you again, but because… I'm not really sure how to talk to you about this. Maybe it doesn't matter, and you'll never read this anyway, but…**_

 _ **It's my fault. You haven't said it and I thank you for that, but I still feel like, everything that's happened with Morgana is my fault.**_

Arthur re-read that line several times. Understanding, and yet not. Because he felt the very same way, whenever he thought of Morgana. Of the things he could have done, and didn't – he hadn't known there was a problem til it was long past fixing. She didn't trust him, she hadn't confided in him.

Neither had Merlin – but Merlin hadn't betrayed Camelot or Arthur. Not in any way that mattered, not in any way that endangered his reign or the lives of innocents.

 _ **It's killing me to watch what Morgana's absence is doing to the king.**_

For a moment, Arthur was disconcerted, til he remembered, at the time his father would have been king. He remembered that year, too – his father had been extremely hard on him, and all the men. _Find her_. Repeated endlessly, in spite of the expenses, in spite of the drain on everyone's health and energy. Maybe a full night's rest when they returned, and as much food as they could pack inside them – but they headed right out the next morning. And Uther never listened when Arthur argued the impossibility of rescuing someone from a sorceress who'd always evaded them. Even the ruins where he'd seen the ghost of his mother had yielded nothing.

 _ **I'm glad Gwen is feeling better, though – not so tearful, these days. It helps her to stay busy, I can tell, even though we're not around much.**_

That, too, Arthur remembered. Feeling like it was his failure that had lost Morgana, the day Morgause and her Knights of Medhir had attacked, and that he didn't deserve Gwen's company, then.

 _ **It's hardest on Arthur, though. He blames himself, and half kills himself with trying so hard, on these patrols. Even when the rest of the men are just going through the motions because they've all decided, Morgana is dead or as good as. At least they can take a rotation off once in a while, but Arthur's always out looking. Trying.**_

And Merlin had been right there with him. Lean and exhausted and frost-bitten and half-drowned – but ready with whatever creature comforts of hot food and dry blankets he could manage. And a comforting word. Even, it seemed, when he'd felt as guilty as Arthur, and with far less reason. He wasn't responsible for Morgana, not like Arthur was, and had been since they were children and she had come orphaned to Camelot…

He'd be there, at Camlann, Arthur knew. Whatever he found in the Valley – even if it was nothing – he'd be at Camlann. How could he ever have doubted otherwise of Merlin?

Arthur folded that letter without reading Merlin's repeated personal assurances to Gaius, yet again. It surprised him a little, how often the younger man could say the same thing, and it lost no meaning – but rather gained significance, every time.

The next one, however, was the shortest and messiest, each line beginning dark with drippy ink, scratching til there was the faintest shadow of letters to make out what was meant. Written in a desperate hurry, then.

 _ **Gaius – I'm sorry I lost the Cup.**_

Arthur knew immediately what was meant with that capital letter. He remembered that headlong flight to keep the magical artifact – fairly stolen from the druids, and that still shamed him - out of the hands of Cenred's men. He remembered that he'd been shot by an arrow – and had woken to scold Merlin for caring for him instead of retrieving the priceless goblet.

Was that, he wondered, Merlin's one failing – caring for Arthur more than whatever was at stake?

But at least a year had passed, between this scrawled note and the last rambling letter. A year in which things happened – he was sure Merlin must have been in fear for his life at least once, especially considering that Morgana had evidently been working against them for quite some time, spying for Morgause. The whole year, maybe? that was a depressing thought… but also the only explanation for what had happened when they returned without the Cup. _We have a traitor in our midst._

 _ **Arthur's hurt, but he'll live as long as I do. We'll try for the king, but whether we can rescue him or not, we'll meet you in the woods. After that – it's anyone's guess.**_

 _ **Read these. I mean them.**_

Swallowing hurt, and the words blurred. Merlin's heart was as true and courageous as any of his knights – and he'd never malign them with a rescinded compliment like he'd slapped in his servant's face. He'd even treated Mordred with more respect, and Mordred had left them at the first true test of divided loyalties.

 _When this is over, Merlin_ , he vowed silently, _you and I will_ talk.

He found himself wondering how Merlin had managed to retrieve each of these notes left for his mentor, without Gaius seeing one of them. Maybe he'd left them in his room, and the old man simply hadn't had cause to go up there to look about, seeing how Merlin always returned virtually unscathed.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **I'm fine, I promise. That dizzy spell at the feast was nothing, and I'm sure the Cailleach means no harm.**_

 _ **And, I'm writing you another of these letters.**_

Arthur couldn't help a chuckle, though it wasn't mirthful. He'd been content to take Merlin's assurances, _I'm fine_ , at face value every time. There usually wasn't opportunity to do anything else. He remembered exactly what Merlin was talking about, though – that stupid Samhain feast, having to speak the toast and pretend to celebrate when they'd just received news of Morgana, that she'd killed two of his men. He remembered that his uncle had been there, vowing his loyalty, too.

She'd gone to the Isle of the Blessed. Not to seek healing for a loved one, as Merlin had done – but evidently to offer the blood sacrifice necessary to cause more indiscriminate death. He shook his head; the difference between Merlin and Morgana was vast, and incomprehensible, to him.

 _ **Whatever we find at this village –**_

Arthur remembered the strained tension, creeping through the dead and abandoned. The sound that had startled them all like nervous girls – and then it was just Gwaine, crunching an apple.

 _ **Whether it has anything to do with the veil, torn or not, or the spirit world, you know you need not fear for Arthur. I'll do whatever it takes to protect him, and to fix**_ _ **whatever Morgana's done. Honestly, though, I don't know what I'd do without you – you have answers whenever I'm lost, and when I doubt myself, you don't. I cannot even begin to express how valuable that is to me. You believe in me, and that makes it possible for me to believe, too.**_

Arthur let his breath out harshly, scrubbing his eyes dry though there was no one else in the room to see the involuntary overflow of emotion.

He understood that sentiment, too, he'd felt it over and over. With Merlin. With Gwen and the knights and Gaius, but first and deepest, with Merlin. _Your belief in me makes it possible for me to believe, too_ – and that was what hurt, today in his room, the thought that Merlin was deserting him now, of all times.

But of course, Merlin _wouldn't_.

He'd teased Merlin relentlessly for days after that Samhain, about how jumpy he was, mostly to cover his own anxiety. Arthur remembered how they'd talked around Merlin's courage, the first night they'd made camp on their way to the Isle, about whether their relationship could be termed friends, or not. He remembered that Merlin had been optimistic, even then.

And then his servant had tossed him aside before jumping right in the path of that one stray dorocha. Miraculously he'd survived, to rejoin them in their quest to close the veil. Arthur remembered vivid, painful relief – that Merlin was going to be with him at the end, after all. That he would die for his kingdom, but Merlin would live.

Not even a dozen steps he'd taken across that wild dark courtyard, and not a flicker of suspicion that the veil-keeper had changed her mind – _Is that the best you can do?_ – when his surrender had been rejected as easily as Gwaine's attack had been.

Flying through the air, colliding with stone and darkness – waking to find that Lancelot's sacrifice had been accepted. There had been too much confusion and discomfort when he'd woken, and in the days to follow, too much to do in the aftermath of the fear and death throughout the kingdom, to think much on those moments after unconsciousness.

Now he couldn't help contemplating the hours Lancelot and Merlin had spent apart from him and the other knights. What had they spoken of, what had they decided… and then Merlin had healed miraculously.

It occurred to him that the straightest path they could have taken back to Camelot, would have been through the Forest of Glaestig. Dragoon's backyard.

Arthur shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. To rid himself of a niggling suspicion that the private and deeply-buried fear that his life somehow wasn't good enough to seal the veil – perhaps because he was a Pendragon? – wasn't the answer to the inexplicable events of that night.

Yet another question he'd have to ask Merlin. _What happened when I wasn't looking._

That letter he folded carefully, almost reverently. These bits of parchments, the careless strokes, the cheap ink, were becoming unbearably precious.

He hesitated before reaching for the next one.

What if he didn't say anything to Merlin at all. What if he simply decided to trust… and when all this was over, they'd go for a long ride, the two of them. Away from the citadel and their various responsibilities, seeking honesty and truth in the equality of the forest tracks.

That is, if they both made it through the battle alive. If they didn't – he supposed it didn't matter much, after all, what he knew or didn't know.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **I'm not going to apologize for this one. Yes, I made mistakes, and I know it – I shouldn't have trusted Borden. But that egg, that unborn dragon, is my responsibility and no one else's – and I cannot bear that it should remain imprisoned.**_

Oh yeah, that. Arthur didn't thump his head on the table, he only shook it and felt his mouth turn down unhappily. He knew the reason why Merlin would claim the egg his responsibility, now – and he wished once again that Merlin had more than one person to confide in and ask advice of. He had the idea that the father-son relationship between Merlin and Gaius meant also, some rebellion for rebellion's sake.

And – that small deformed white dragon they'd seen more than once. He could guess, now, that the egg had not been lost in the collapse of the tower, which only Merlin had witnessed, when he and the knights had arrived just after, whatever had happened. He wondered if the thief had survived that day, too.

How had that dragon become attached to Morgana, though, if Merlin was the son of the dragonlord?

 _ **I don't think my life is in danger, this time – but my secrets definitely are. If I'm caught doing something I can't explain away, I just, I don't think I can lie to Arthur about this. It's not just me that I'm protecting, you see – it's that little dragon. So if I can't hide both of us, I guess I won't be coming back. In that case, tell Arthur it won't do any good to send anyone to Ealdor, or to the Forest of Merendra, for he won't find me in either place. Tell him… well, tell him the truth, I guess. Tell him that you're innocent in all of this, but that he need never fear me or the dragons, not ever for any reason. And if he ever needs us…**_

Arthur found it hard to breathe evenly. Merlin expected him to react as his father had – with violence or rejection. Was that why he'd stood there this afternoon and said nothing when Arthur backhandedly called him coward?

He wanted to hit Merlin. To punch him right in the jaw or the stomach, to shake him til his teeth rattled in his head. Til he fought back, and the hurt Arthur felt was physical, bruises that could be seen, and would fade. He wanted a shouting match, to release some of this frustration – with himself, mostly, if he was honest – and hear some damn honesty leap unchecked from Merlin's mouth, too.

 _Don't treat me like the king, anymore. Don't lie because that's what I want to hear, because of the law I'm sworn to uphold. Give me the truth, and trust me to deal justly and fairly._

Which was at odds with his desire for a bit of temper-relieving violence, he knew. And with the resolution to keep the secrets for a day when they weren't facing battle.

Arthur discarded the dragon-letter, and reached for the next one – there were four left, he could count. All right; he had the time for that. And then to decide whether to tell Gaius he'd found them – as long as he remained undiscovered in the physician's chamber – and then to decide whether to tell Guinevere, tonight. Probably enough, though not everything.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **This is it. Our first joined battle with Arthur as king – and for such a stupid reason, too. If I didn't know Agravaine was Arthur's uncle, and of course he'd have to give the best advice he had, wouldn't he? I'd wonder if he didn't want Arthur to fail, for some reason.**_

Arthur snorted. And thumped his head with his fist, remembering Merlin's immediate agreement to the plan that had resulted in the bandit-king's capture in the first place. Surely Merlin's risk and obvious courage – raising that wood-axe against Caerleon's whole troop before the knights joined him in that gully – merited him some say in how the captive was dealt with.

He sighed – perhaps Merlin's risk and obvious courage merited him some say in Arthur's _council_. Always provided they survived Camlann.

 _ **What a stupid thing to happen. We had Caerleon, Gaius, we had him captive, and we could have done anything with him. Anything more diplomatic than executing him on the spot, Agravaine had to know it.**_

 _ **Arthur doesn't listen to me anymore. I mean, there was never any real reason why he should – except for when I'm right – but now he ignores me, instead of arguing to find the point of the argument, and make the best decision, then. And I honestly can't tell, anymore, how he's going to react if he decides I've actually crossed the line into insubordination or disloyalty. Or treason. What he does and what he thinks… aren't the same thing. He's trying harder to be his father's son now, than he did when he was just the prince, and I'm… I'm scared for him, Gaius. I don't know how to help him be true to himself, anymore.**_

 _ **I guess, just like I've always done. Make sure his fool head stays on his fool shoulders. And if I don't come back from this war and he does, you can tell him I said that.**_

 _ **My fool head doesn't matter much anymore, anyway.**_

 _ **Please laugh, Gaius, when you remember me – don't mourn, or at least not for long. Don't let Gwen mourn for long, or my mother, all right? Promise me that. And thanks for everything.**_

He'd done something that day, too, Arthur was sure of it. That was before Merlin had begun to suspect Agravaine – long before that heart-stopping moment when Arthur had seen his uncle crossing the courtyard with Morgana, otherwise he'd never have believed it, himself.

That day when Arthur was fighting the seven-foot-tall champion of Queen Annis, and his sword had been so incredibly unwieldy, it was a like a nightmare. He'd had those, nightmares when his sword had been too heavy to defend himself, and those he loved, and bolt upright sweating and panting in his bed, trying to grip and lift and pull the sheets. That day on the field, with everyone watching, he'd been sure he was going to lose – and then the giant twice fumbled his weapon. A sword that by all rights should have been heavier than Arthur's, balanced for the larger man – but it felt light as a feather in comparison.

That phenomenon hadn't happened since, though, to the sword he carried almost daily at his hip. Curious. Arthur was willing to bet Merlin knew why. Arthur was willing to bet his life that Merlin's magic had acted to hinder his opponent's weapon, that day, and not his own.

Third to the last. _**Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **Arthur's ordered me to ready for a trip again, just him and me. He refused to tell me where, but I'm afraid I already know. The horn the old woman told us about, the one meant to summon the spirits of the dead. I think we're going to Nemeton, like we once went to Morgause. I'm afraid, though, it won't be for Arthur to see his mother again… I always hated the way Agravaine made him feel like he was no good as a king, it was worse than how Uther used to treat him. He's a good man, he just needs more confidence in the decisions that come from his heart – I know you know what I mean. But I'm afraid he's going to summon his father's spirit, and that… nothing good can come from that**_ **.**

But good had come from that whole ordeal, Arthur felt; he'd seen his father and spoken to him, had recognized what made his father a good king - and where he'd crossed the line. That was the day he felt he'd first fully owned the crown and throne as his, and not just as an inheritance from his father. An obligation to do thing the way his father would have done them.

It was odd Merlin thought he had to write a letter of farewell to Gaius for that trip, though – did he think they might honestly be in danger of their lives?

Then again, they'd been attacked by Odin's men when they were on their way to meet Morgause; and looking back, it had been less than a fortnight between Nemeton and the horn, and Mithian's arrival to plead for help because Odin – and Morgana – had invaded Nemeth.

Merlin's stupid funny-feeling was so often, dead on.

Arthur wished he'd known there was a reason he could have trusted himself to trust that. A servant's fears compared to a magic-user's intuition…

It was odd how it wasn't really odd anymore to think of Merlin using magic. _Warlock_. Something part of him, not just a skill he'd learned like horse-riding or armor-mending.

That meant the other two letters, in chronological order, were from this year as well. And nothing at all from the first three years of Arthur's reign, at least after Morgana's defeat and Agravaine's subsequent retreat. He wondered if maybe, Merlin had gotten to the point where he didn't fear for his life, anymore – but for the revelation of his secret abilities. And then he would be banished, or escape and go into voluntary exile, himself.

That thought hurt Arthur as much as the reality of Gwen's absence at his command. No; no matter what Merlin had done, no matter how much it looked like his manservant had betrayed him in breaking the law banning all use of magic, Arthur was determined not to make the same mistake. Not to separate himself from people who were trustworthy to the core – at least not without the opportunity to listen and understand, first.

 _ **Dear Gaius,**_

 _ **We're riding at dawn for Brechfa. A sorcerer has attacked the garrison, evidently, and a knight was killed, so of course we're going after him.**_

 _ **I hate this, Gaius, truly. I don't know the man, so I can have no idea if he meant murder, or if he was simply caught unawares, and trying to escape with his life. Perhaps he has a family he was trying to hide, to keep safe. But now we're to hunt him down, and I cannot but expect him to defend himself. Which is understandable – and normally I'd be helping him as much as I could –**_

Arthur thought uncomfortably of the druid boy - who'd gone on that mission with them as a man and a knight. Of the druid girl who'd also killed innocent people because she'd been cursed, and Merlin had intended to save her.

He remembered Osric, a messenger killed for the magic they hadn't even seen him use, before any questions could be asked about the circumstances surrounding the death of Sir Ranulf. He remembered that golden disk, and the three sorceresses in the cave – and how Merlin had felt the vitality of the grove, more so than Arthur.

But he'd told him, when Arthur had pressed for his opinion, do not accept magic back. _There can be no place for magic in Camelot._ Did Merlin truly believe that? That Arthur would have broken that promise, once Mordred's life was saved – or was it that he didn't want Mordred's life saved, knowing what he knew?

That was Merlin's failing, then. To value Arthur's life over every other consideration. Over magic itself.

Breathing hurt. But he had to go on doing it.

 _Is it my fault, then? Why does it always happen this way?_ At times, in the past, he'd begun to doubt the teachings of his father, to examine the conclusions of the law. And then something went horribly or fatally wrong, and he thought himself justified in retreating back into the familiarity of the blanket Ban and the black-and-white morality he'd been taught. _It's just, all evil. Don't even bother questioning._

 _ **How can he possibly change his mind, when this is all he sees? When he assumes the man to be guilty of murder, before any mention of trial? Before he's heard his side of the story? How can I show Arthur the truth about magic – that it isn't good or bad, that there is no evil in magic, just in men – if I can't tell him about myself, because I would be guilty the moment I opened my mouth to say, I have magic. I probably wouldn't be allowed to say, I use it for you, Arthur, only for you – if he'd even believe me, at that point.**_

 _ **I don't know, Gaius. Arthur must live, that is certain. But if I must defend him with magic against this sorcerer, and I'm caught – I think I'm going to ask him for the mercy of his own sword, and a quick death. Not to come back here, or stand trial, or have anyone else even know. That would undermine his rule, and his confidence in himself…**_

 _ **So if he comes to tell you, Merlin was killed on this patrol. Please just accept that, and pretend you knew nothing about my magic. And don't tell Gwen anything, either. Just that I loved them both, and tried to serve them truly, to the best of all my abilities.**_

 _ **And of course, tell my mother –**_

Arthur's throat was closing, and the room blurred. He tried to swallow, to clear the passageway for air, and it hurt. _Hells, Merlin_ – that he'd truly believed Arthur would have stood over him kneeling for the blade the way Caerleon had done, and then swing his sword… It made him ill to think.

It made him ill to remember how unjustly he'd taken another's life, with the caprice his father had shown, using power simply because he could.

But the worst was that Merlin has lost faith in him. In his ability to judge fairly and to dispense even-handed justice.

Did he believe all magic was evil, and anyone with the ability to use it to be declared a thorough liar? No. But then it followed, that he should believe some magic to be good, and any given magic-user capable of honesty and trustworthiness. And he trusted Merlin, no matter what he learned about the secrets he kept. He trusted that Merlin had done that for his own good, even if he'd been mistaken in his belief.

"I wish you'd said something," he whispered into the darkness of the backs of his eyelids, and against the palm of his hand. "I'm sorry…" The words burned in his throat. _Guess I was wrong, guess I was wrong._

Damn it all, how wrong he'd been.

When he moved his hand and opened his eyes to rub tears and tiredness from them, the room was noticeably darker, the candle on the table just holding back the shadow. And his fingers shook as he touched the last unread letter.

 **Dear Gaius,**

 **You'll probably tell me not to go. The boy's a stranger, he's a druid, he got all the way to the citadel kitchen without anyone noticing. It's dangerous in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, I know. But he says his sister is sick, and of course you can't go because it is dangerous. So I'm going. Arthur's going to be busy with Sarrum anyway, and I'll be back before he knows I'm gone. If I'm not… Well, if I'm not I guess I don't care what you tell him.**

Arthur gazed into the corner, remembering how absolutely distracted he'd been by that bit of attempted diplomacy. How Gaius had tried to excuse Merlin's absence on herb-fetching errands – was that ever actually true? – and he'd concluded Merlin was in the tavern again.

And yet… he hadn't gone to drag his drunken manservant back himself, or order anyone else to do it. And now, after reading all of these and mounting realizations like the stairs of a tower, he couldn't remember that day, that moment right here in this room, whether he'd _suspected_ and _overlooked_ , or not.

And he'd been revolted by the Sarrum's talk of torturing Morgana. And the boy with the sick sister – had he been the same one who'd died in saving Arthur's life from the Sarrum's assassin? Why had Merlin brought him back _here_ , if he was a druid? The opposite of what he'd done in trying to save Mordred.

And just at the right moment? seemed the more pertinent question.

He couldn't help remembering that Guinevere had lied about Merlin going to see a girl, or that Merlin had never explained why he was limping that night. And that had led into the realization of Gwen's enchantment, and her miraculous, magical reclamation…

How often had Merlin seen danger coming a mile before Arthur had any hint of it? And what culpability did Arthur own in Merlin's decision not to inform him, because of disbelief or contempt?

 _I mistreat him and he stays. And he covers the true depth of his pain, physical and otherwise, with stupid complaints that I disregard and mock…_

Arthur folded the last sheet – _Dear Gaius, This time we got to say goodbye_ – and matched it as best he could with the other pages, tucking them all carefully into the cloth pouch.

 _I don't understand. I don't deserve his devotion, I haven't earned a fraction of that from him. He's not a knight… but I should respect him more. I should listen more…_

Standing, he made his way up three uneven stairs, and pushed into Merlin's bedroom. Simple, spare – but rich with significance. Articles of clothing left behind – and carelessly. In his hurry, and maybe a subconscious belief that they would indeed be back to continue with life as usual – or maybe a superstition that packing or cleaning was a final surrender of hope.

Candle on the table in the corner that evidently Merlin used for a desk – and dozens of these little rough cheap parchment pages, carrying recipes or sketches or notes, pinned to the wall or folded over a long string tacked horizontally for the purpose. He'd come a long way from the clumsy boy Arthur had so resisted upon first meeting and reluctant association. Now, were something to happen to Gaius, Arthur trusted that Merlin could handle the responsibilities he'd been taught. Medicine, and magic.

 _Because,_ I'm _the idiot. I'm the one that can't see what's right in front of me._

 _Heaven grant me time to make that right…_

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur's sleep was broken by nightmares. He sat at a campfire across from Gaius and tried to coax the old physician – who knew nothing of Arthur's trip to his quarters and descent into memories, or the letters from his apprentice - into telling him the truth and Gaius said, _The truth is, I haven't sent Merlin anywhere. He knows we can't win this battle…_

He tossed to his other side, tangling the sheets some other servant had packed, rustling over the mattress some other attendant had organized for their monarchs. Vaguely he thought he was probably disturbing Guinevere's rest, and hoped she wasn't having bad dreams, too.

Leon's voice echoed, _It's a death trap… it's a death trap_ …

He dreamed of Merlin entombed in the dark, bloodied and exhausted and screaming with futile despair. Death trap… death trap… Gwaine had returned, reassuring him that Merlin could handle himself – but he was alone, then.

If Merlin wasn't coming – if Merlin couldn't come and bring with him the magic that was their only hope –

Arthur's spirit struggled, restrained within his sleeping body. Certain that he couldn't breathe, certain that he wouldn't wake in time and the enemy would come sweeping into the tent. Certain that he'd overlooked something as vital as Merlin and magic.

 _Help me! I can't… not by myself…_

 _Arthur._

Merlin's voice, soothing and cool, sympathetic and supportive, and Arthur stilled to attention, focused on the voice in the dark.

 _I'm sorry I had to leave you. I didn't want to._

 _I didn't want you to, either. I'm sorry I said what I said…_

Merlin didn't seem to have heard him. _I hope one day you'll understand why._

 _I do understand. At least, I think I do._

Merlin didn't hear that either, but went on to speak of Camlann, and Arthur's plan. His confidence made Arthur sure, even if there was an old path unknown, and Merlin himself not there yet.

 _Find the path!_ Merlin urged.

And somehow they were more fully connected by their shared intensity – it was as if Arthur had opened his eyes into another dream, of Merlin surrounded by blue-white crystals, glowing and reflected in his eyes.

 _Merlin_! Arthur pushed past the resistance of time and space to respond. To reach and grasp and keep.

His manservant – his magician – spun and almost lost his balance, stunned but fully attuned to whatever presence Arthur had achieved.

"What… is…" he sputtered stupidly – then calmed abruptly to almost-laughing, looking around himself at all the crystals. "I'm dreaming, aren't I. Wishful thinking?"

" _I'm_ dreaming," Arthur said, impatient with the shortness of time – the day of battle dawning, or nearly so. "Don't panic, but I know. I know you're a warlock, I know you have magic in a special way that you never chose – but I know that your choice was to use it for good. To protect people you cared about – Gaius, and Gwen. Camelot. Even me, and damn if I wouldn't like to – shake you, or punch you, or…"

"Put me in the stocks?" Merlin suggested, overcoming shock just enough to attempt a deflecting joke.

"Knight you," Arthur corrected forcefully. "If that wouldn't be so absurd, all around."

"What happened," Merlin said. "Something happened – after I saw you last, in your chamber? Or else, I really am dreaming."

"I read your letters," Arthur confessed, a bit ashamed, but mostly just rushed because whatever this connection was, it couldn't last. "The ones you left for Gaius."

Merlin's mouth dropped open, as if his first reaction was to be offended – maybe then to exaggerate that and mock Arthur's embarrassment in confessing a wrongdoing. But – Arthur saw it happen – he began to remember what he'd written, and a strange and painful sort of fear began to darken his eyes.

"I want to say something to you," Arthur interrupted. "Something I already said once, and didn't mean. Merlin… _Guess I was wrong_. About a lot of things. About magic."

Mouth still sagging open, Merlin fumbled to land a supporting hand on the wall of the cave, and sank down to sitting.

"Listen, I know where you went and what for, and it's all right," Arthur continued. "Bring that old man Dragoon and his magic, and we'll block off that pass, and meet Morgana on something like an even battlefield. And we'll end this, once and for all, we'll bring peace and a chance to catch our breath. And do some good, something constructive that we can be proud of."

"A… bout that old man? Dragoon?" Merlin said, as if he were still overwhelmed and not certain whether to believe what was happening. "Um, there's something I should probably tell you…"

"There's tons you should probably tell me," Arthur stated. "But later. After."

"Mordred will be there," Merlin said suddenly, straightening and drawing his legs under him in preparation to rise. "If I'm a little late getting there, please be careful, Arthur. He'll kill you."

"He'll try," Arthur said, feeling quietly but determinedly lethal, himself. "You take care of yourself, too…" It occurred to him that Merlin was in a cave – the cave – very much like Arthur had dreamed just now, of prisons and desolation, and sought more assurance of Merlin's ability to arrive at the battlefield. "I'll look for you?"

"I'll be there," Merlin promised. "Me, though. Not him – the old man."

"Don't you think –" Arthur started, but Merlin stopped him with a wide grin that was incongruously _cheeky_ , for their situation.

"I guess I was wrong, too - I don't need him, after all," the warlock said. "Wake up, now, Arthur… I'll be there soon."

Arthur blinked and everything went black and foggy for a moment. Til he dragged himself back up from the depths of the cave to Guinevere's concerned voice and the subtle candlelight on the soft nest of their transported bed.

"What's the matter?"

"Merlin," he said automatically, not sure whether he was trying to call the dream-connection back, or accept the link broken, and take hold of consciousness and all it meant for the dawning of this day.

"It was a dream, Arthur," Gwen consoled him – though he'd told her enough, last night, that really she should know better. But he was breathing hard and sweating freely, so probably she'd just said the first thing that came to her mind in waking next to him like that. "Just a dream."

Arthur took a deep breath, and let it out. And just before he grabbed a handful of bedding to toss back and leap out in search of clothing and armor, he gave her the same sort of arrogant smirk his magical manservant had just given him.

"No, it wasn't. And that's why we'll win."

* * *

 **A/N: Again, not an original idea, that Arthur learns Merlin's secrets by reading his correspondence/diary… Also, sorry for another pulling-up-short-of-the-fictional-finish-line kind of ending! But we can figure the fight will go their way, and Mordred won't wound Arthur mortally and Morgana won't escape the battlefield and Merlin will come as himself and – eventually – confess the truth of Dragoon. I kind of like Arthur figuring some things out on his own – but not everything.**

 **Thanks so much to everyone who followed and favorited and especially reviewed this collection of stories! I don't have any plans to add to it at the moment, so I'm marking it complete. And in a week or so I'm going to start my next full-length fic, "The Penned Dragon", a modern take (more or less) on episode 2.8 "The Sins of the Father."**

 **Quotations from eps. 1.13 "Le Morte d'Arthur", 4.3 "The Wicked Day", 4.7 "The Secret Sharer", 5.9 "With All My Heart" and 5.12 "The Diamond of the Day". And others, probably…**


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